


Her ghost underneath

by cameliae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Come Eating, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fem!Jaskier, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Binary Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sappy, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, friends to idiots to lovers, non binary!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: That day, Geralt wakes up before Jaskier. It is hardly the first time, especially when they camp on the road – Jaskier finds difficult to fall asleep on hard ground, and when he finally does, it is always late. In the mornings, just for this, he finds it hard to wake.Geralt doesn’t look at him immediately. He gets up, he gets dressed. He drinks a bit of water in Jaskier’s waterskin, thinking that they now need to fill it up again. And then, and only then, he does look at Jaskier’s sleeping form, still lying prone in his own bedroll, and suddenly stops dead in his track. He blinks, once, twice. But nothing changes. His body has, has too many curves.He drops in his knees and shakes him until Jaskier moans and blinks the sleep away. “What,” he asks, slowly, with a low voice that it’s still too damn high.Geralt wakes up with a slightly different Jaskier sleeping next to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 287





	1. Chapter 1

That day, Geralt wakes up before Jaskier. It is hardly the first time, especially when they camp on the road – Jaskier finds difficult to fall asleep on hard ground, and when he finally does, it is always late. In the mornings, just for this, he finds it hard to wake.

Geralt doesn’t look at him immediately. He gets up, he gets dressed. He drinks a bit if water in Jaskier’s waterskin, thinking that they now need to fill it up again. And then, and only then, he does look at Jaskier’s sleeping form, still lying prone in his own bedroll, and suddenly stops dead in his track. He blinks, once, twice. But nothing changes. His body has, has too many curves.

He drops in his knees and shakes him until Jaskier moans and blinks the sleep away. “What,” he asks, slowly, with a low voice that it’s still _too damn high_.

“Something’s wrong, Jaskier.”

“ _What_.” he asks again, trying to standing up. While he does that, the fur that covers him – Jaskier, as always, sleeps _naked_ – falls slowly from his chest– breasts, that– those are definitely breasts– _Gods,_ there are big, heavy, with pink, perky nipples, breasts on Jaskier’s chest. “Geralt, _speak_. With actual words, please.”

Geralt tries, _really_ , to raise his eyes from his– from his _breasts_ and talk, but it’s difficult. Fuck, they’re heavenly. Perfect. Round and rosy, not too big but definitely big _enough_. Jaskier looks at him with his eyebrows furrowed, half–lidded eyes still too sleepy but quite aware of Geralt’s… _stare_ on him. So, after yawning – and Gods, his chest _expands –_ he follows his gaze until his eyes fall on himself. On his chest. On what Geralt is looking – at his breasts.

Then he curse loudly, grabbing the fur to cover himself. “Well, fuck.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“You are, instead.” he giggles. His voice is higher than usual. It’s always been soft, but now it’s even softer. “Don’t worry, I have an explanation!” he says, pointing a finger to the sky. “An actually good one, I swear. I just have to… check something first…” the same finger disappear under the fur, and he actually starts to _rummaging_ under it and– what– “Yup. Completely back. Great.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes, “What the fuck does that mean, Jaskier.”

“It’s just… look, all is fine. Swipe that worried expression off your face, you soft–heartened oaf.” Geralt is pretty sure that he does not have just worry written on his face, but he doesn’t contradict him. He grunts, and Jaskier seems satisfied of that, “Okay, uh. Be aware that this happened way before I met you, so you have no right to get mad at me. I was young, and… you know what? That’s what I _wanted_ and what I _still want_ , so I’m not going to justify myself.”

“Jaskier.”

“I am born female. I wanted to be a male. That’s it.” Geralt tilts his head, and squeezes again his eyes. He’s… _what._ What. “I mean, that’s not all, of course. I was born female, but I, I… So, I begged a witch to turn me into a male. And she did! Yes, I was disinherited because of this. And yes, almost executed because this is dark magic? Kinda blasphemous? Whatever. But, alas, I guess it was a temporary arrangement.” Jaskier grimaces, “Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ woman, and I love a woman body, I think I showed this plenty of time. The thing is, I’m kinda flexible. I feel completely fine being a male, as I am a female.”

Geralt frowns, but hums.

“Too strange? I don’t expect you to understand.” he repeats, with a sigh. “I always wanted to travel the Continent, perform in taverns and courts. What I’m doing now it would have been _reeaally_ difficult to do that as a woman.”

“So you begged a _witch_ to turn you into a man, and you never, _never_ even thought of telling me that?” Geralt can’t fucking believe his ears. The bard has not fucking self preservation!

“Don’t you dare to use that tone with me, witcher! It’s just… I didn’t think it was so important! I know, it’s not the safest thing to drink some strange concoction prepared by a witch, but. I had so much to give the world, Geralt. If I haven’t did what I actually did, I would have been thrown off to an unknown land, married and fucked by an old lord, and my only reason to existence would have been pushing children out of my flawless body. Excuse me, sir, but this is not what I wanted – and still not what I want – from life, thank you very much.”

Geralt’s face twists, “But you had to… _transform_ yourself.”

Jaskier looks at him curiously, frowning slightly. Then, comprehension flashes in his blue eyes, and, after meddling with the fur so it couldn’t slide off in any moment, he brings a hand to his face, caressing his cheeks. “It’s not the same thing, Geralt. I did it willingly. _You_ didn’t have the same choice.” his fingers touch lightly the scars near his lips, the black under his yellow, ugly eyes. He smiles, “I never cared about gender. I feel perfectly fine being male as being female, who cares though? Gender doesn’t define me, I am just… Jaskier.”

Geralt huffs through his nose, “You are.” he just says, because it’s true. Nothing much changed from his male body, after all: his eyes are the same, the lips too, the nose too. The shape of his face is slightly more soft, more oval. Of course, now he has… very nice breasts, and Geralt supposes that he has also wider hips and, and female genitalia. But apart from obvious changes, Jaskier is still Jaskier. Same mischief glints in his eyes, same witty and sharply tongue.

He isn’t in pain, or unhappy. It’s nothing as his kind of change, from human to monster.

“Even though I don’t really care about being back to my female body, I think I really need to find a witch now.” At his confused stare, Jaskier smiles, “Being a lone woman on the road isn’t easy, Geralt. Apart from not wanting to be married off to someone I didn’t want, I also don’t want to be raped to death or kidnapped to be sold in a brothel. Life as a male travelling bard is… not simple, but definitely easier than a female one.”

“You’re with me. I would never let that happen to you, Jaskier.” growls Geralt, one eye twitching. Just the thought of Jaskier raped or killed – male or female doesn’t really care, it’s _Jaskier_ for fuck’s sake – gets the blood in his veins boil.

Jaskier looks at him with a soft gaze, his hand still on his face, “I know, you big softie. But I cannot be always with you, now, can I?”

Something unsaid passes between them. All the times he has to leave him alone, all the times he pushed him away – Geralt reads all of them into his blue irises. And even though Geralt would walk through fire before letting something happen to Jaskier, he knows he’s right. He will never be always with him.

They love each other, they do. Geralt has no strength to tell himself otherwise anymore, after all this time. But theirs is a platonic love, Geralt would never touch and stain the only fucking pure and precious thing he still has in his life. And now – now it’s even worse. Geralt feels so, so inadequate, so unworthy. Nothing changed with the changes in his body, really.

So he gets up not too long after, letting Jaskier’s hand fall from his face. He starts to undo the camp, while giving Jaskier as much privacy as he needs to get dressed. Geralt packs their things, rolls their bedrolls and kicks some soil into what remains of the fire he made the night before. He tends Roach, and saddles her.

Then suddenly, Jaskier gasps. Geralt turns towards him, alarmingly, but he’s fine. He’s up, he is wearing the same chemise, trousers and violet doublet of the day before, and they are slightly too big for his now body, but he has already put a belt around his waist. Like this, his wider hips are even more accentuated. “What?” he says, studying their surrounding. All seems fine.

“I never had sex as a female.” Jaskier looks at him with a sheepishly expression, his rosy lips forming an o, in bewilderment. “I never thought I would have ever said it, but I am a virgin. Again. Whoa.”

At that, Geralt feels like this whole thing will be more difficult than he has expected. Because from the very pleased look Jaskier is giving him, he likely has no intention on staying a virgin for too long if it will take too damn much time to find a _good_ witch, that’s for sure. Jealousy fills his stomach, as every time he thinks about Jaskier with someone else – but now, Gods, now it’s worse. It’s his fucking _first time_. And he’s going to do it with a stranger, uncaring man that doesn’t love him as he deserves. 

Hm. Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

The inn where they stopped in is not the worse inn they ever put their feet on. It has a nice stable, where Geralt lets Roach rest, making sure she is treated well by the stableboy and that she will be fed all the hay she needs and also an apple or two. Once he and Jaskier enter inside the tavern, there are less patrons than expected, and they mostly are minding their own business – they don’t acknowledge them at all.

Jaskier is not amused by the lack of attention he is getting. Geralt just makes sure that the his coat – _his_ own black coat Geralt gave him the second they left the solitude of the woods – covers enough of his… of his breasts. There is nothing wrong in them, not at all. Geralt just think that someone may be recognizing Jaskier, seeing him as a female, and hurt him. Geralt is just doing this for his safety, not for any other reason at all.

“Stay behind me.” he orders him, while they both walk where the innkeeper is.

“Alright, my knight in shining – pardon, in _black_ armor.” Jaskier says, completely calm. His voice is soft and sweet, it lacks of his usual gruff background whenever he tries to talk in lowly murmurs. “I want a bath. I hope you are aware of that.”

“I am. Hush now.”

He sniffs, but he does what asked. He feels him fidgeting behind him, half–hidden by his back, while he talks with the innkeeper – the man is old, and probably can’t even see very well. He doesn’t make a fuss about him being a witcher, he just gives them the key for their room and says that Geralt has to take the water for the bath himself, because he has no helpers. Geralt doesn’t mind and pays him, as long as Jaskier is out of trouble inside their room.

Geralt goes through a back door, while Jaskier – still tucked into his coat – goes upstairs, twirling the room key with a finger. If he could, Geralt is pretty sure he would start to sing, too. He takes hold of two buckets full of hot waters and follows his trail, finding – damn him – the door unlocked and also slightly open. As always, he still has no fucking self preservation.

Once inside, Geralt almost lets the buckets fall on the ground. “What the fuck, Jaskier.” he curses, lowering his eyes and gritting his teeth. The bard will be the death of him.

“What?” he hears Jaskier sniffs again, and then the ruffling noise of discarded clothes falling on the ground. “Oh, c'mon, you softie. This is not surely the first time you see a naked woman!”

“No.” _But_. But this is different, the woman in front of him is _Jaskier_. It’s always been difficult seeing him naked as a male and trying not to do things he was going to regret – but then again, he has seen him naked way before he even _liked_ him, so he has kinda got used to that. Now, now it’s worse. It’s a foreign territory, and Gods, he’s perfect in any way, as he was in his male body. He didn’t see much before he lowered his eyes, but he remembers very vividly the heavenly sight of his breasts a few days ago, when he turned back female. He’s slender, and has long, muscular legs – from his lowered head, he can clearly see them.

“You are very respectful of me, Geralt, and I _very_ appreciate this, but really, I don’t mind you looking. I mean, I do not mind _you_. You totally have my permission.” Geralt doesn’t see him, but he can imagine his cheeky smile, his bared teeth, his rosy, slightly more plump lips. “Geralt? Do you mind filling the tub? I’m _dying_ to get soaked in hot, steamy waters. And let’s make this clear, _me_ first, you oaf. I am very much cleaner than you, it would be pointless washing myself in the same water you used before!”

Geralt just grunts, walking towards the wooden tub opposite to where the bed is, and fills it without even glancing at Jaskier. Once done, he has enough time to just put the buckets away, before he hears the splashing of the water and Jaskier’s moans as he drops himself into it. Now he feels quite safe, so he raises his eyes and looks at the tub – Jaskier is indeed soaking into the hot waters, he has a peaceful expression painted in his face, and he’s making those ridiculous – ridiculously arousing, damn him – content noises, almost like purrs. Nothing new, really, he’s doing what he always does, but… _but_. Geralt swallows, and looks away again.

“Geralt, dear, could you pass me my oils? Oh, my poor aching limbs, I really need the chamomile one, I have quite the sore spots here.” Geralt doesn’t look at where he is surely indicating said sore spots, but he grabs his bag and searches for his chamomile oil. “Oh, uh. My hair is getting longer.” Geralt hears the waters splash again, then Jaskier catches his breath. When he looks at him, he has his hair wet, and his fringe is getting into his eyes. Tiny droplets fall slowly down his face, almost as if caressing his cheeks. They also glide down the back of his neck, drawing a wet line between his shoulder blades, before they disappear again into the water. “It’s been a while since I cut it. Months, I daresay.”

“It’s nice.” he finds himself say, and winces, while handing him the oil.

Jaskier grabs it, and smiles Geralt would almost say fondly. “Is it? I guess it really is, if you say so.” Geralt eyes don’t go farther down his chin, so he tells himself that if he can’t see anything, he can stay like this, near him. So he doesn’t walk away. “But it’s better if I cut it regardless, it’s more practical. I’ve never looked good with longer hair, believe me. I had it, when I was a little girl.” he grimaces, “It makes me look older!”

It’s rare – and now that he thinks about that, it’s _always_ been rare – that Jaskier refers himself as a girl, or a boy. As a man, or a woman – if not in particular cases, like now, or before when Geralt cursed at seeing him naked. So, it’s still strange hearing him say things like _when I was a little girl_. Geralt guesses he’s going to get used to it, from now on.

“So? Would you do it?”

Geralt frowns. He wasn’t listening to him, “Do what?”

Jaskier shrugs, and waters splash around his shoulder. He doesn’t dare to look down, but he can tell that his breasts aren’t completely covered by the water. “Cut my hair. I cannot really go and ask a professional to do that, alas, I’m too famous! They might recognize me! But I can’t really go on like this, the fringe goes into my eyes and they sting, and it’s very annoying, I _love_ how long hair looks on you, Geralt, but that doesn’t mean that I love it on myself. This is a thing I must be done, or… well, _you_ must be done for me. Please?”

Shit. “I’m no professional.”

“Well, no.” Jaskier chuckles, and one lean, delicate albeit calloused hand raises to cover his stretched lips, “But you cut your own hair rather perfectly, I daresay. It would take no effort, for you, to cut mine. It’s just two, maybe three too long strands here, behind my neck.” the same hand slides from his face to his nape, and Gods, that’s the most sensual gesture Geralt’s ever seen in his _entire life_. “And of course, the fringe. But the fringe I can cut myself, don’t worry. The rest… _please_ , oh gallant witcher?”

“I cut my hair with a fucking _dagger_ , Jaskier.” he growls, lowly. Does he have to stay near his long neck, lean throat now? With a dagger in hand, no less?

“And you do it _spectacularly_.” Jaskier throws a cheeky smile at him, then he turns. He rests his back against the tub, his face pointed away from Geralt. His hand is still touching lightly the soft – and oh, Geralt knows that even without ever touching it – skin, showing him the long strands he wants Geralt to cut.

Geralt feels his mouth dry, while he gathers a dagger from his boot and takes a hold on a stool, where he sits on in front of Jaskier’s back. He hesitates just for a second too long, but Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He stays there, unmoving, hand still on his own neck, waiting. He has… wide shoulders, and lean muscles define his upper arms – sign of hours and hours spent playing with a heavy lute on hand. The sight of his elegant neckline, so up close, becoming the shoulder and ending in that arm is the most beautiful, sensual and arousing thing Geralt has ever laid his eyes upon.

He tries to swallow, but he feels his tongue stuck against his palate. Fuck, he needs to get laid, go into a brothel and _trying_ to forget Jaskier, he can’t really go on like this, but… but he can’t fucking leave Jaskier behind, alone, unguarded. No matter how much is his need, Jaskier’s safety comes first. So, he grabs the wet locks behind Jaskier’s nape with two fingers, with so much care, to not touch his burning skin, and starts to cut the hair slowly, trying not to pull too hard.

Jaskier moans breathlessly, and settles better against the tub. “Don’t move. I have a fucking dagger against your neck, for fuck’s sake.” he says to him, through gritted teeth.

“Yes, yes. We all know that you are skilled enough to not slice my throat accidentally.” Jaskier breathes, then he stretches an arm to grab the chamomile oil he lied on the tub’s edge before. “Do your job, while I will do mine. Ohh, Melitele, my feet hurt.” he complains, while spreading the oil on his arms and legs. Geralt doesn’t leave his eyes from his hair – he has a job to do, after all, and he’ll put the same kind of attention he usually puts into his hunts. For his mental state, at least.

Eventually, Geralt – not in purpose, not at all – touches the skin of his neck with the lightest touch of his knuckles, while holding a lock to cut. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jaskier’s knees – his legs are bent, and the knees are wet above the water – shut together, while he breathes tremulously. The second Geralt catches his scent, his sweet, feminine scent of arousal under the soothing one of the chamomile oil, he gets up, letting the dagger falls to the ground.

“Fucking _Gods_.” he swears, and he hopes Jaskier hears exasperation in his tone, and not the same kind of want he’s feeling, before leaving him there and storming off their room.


	3. Chapter 3

The bed dips under the weight of Jaskier's body, as he lays down under the covers next to him. Geralt doesn't look at him, he has his eyes closed and the back turned to him, but he clearly hears him sighing dramatically – and maybe a bit bitterly, as is his scent that now reaches his nose. He doesn't smell aroused anymore, the sweet, mouth watering feminine scent doesn't permeate Jaskier's skin anymore. Geralt would think that he's happy about that, but... he's not.

“Are you mad at me, Geralt?”

Geralt doesn't respond, keeping the back at him obstinately. Jaskier's voice is soft, barely a whisper. It's slightly different from the voice he had when he was a boy, but not too much: it lacks of the lightly ruff background, especially – as now – when he tried to talk with a low tone.

Jaskier hums at the stretched silence. Not that's new, it happens a lot with Geralt after all. “I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to do anything. Really. I was just...” he trails off, and for the first time, Geralt hears Jaskier at loss of words.

“Messing with me?” he prompts him, with no particular inclination in his voice. He's really not so mad, not at Jaskier at least. He's annoyed at himself, and at his weakness.

Well, considering that Jaskier is his weakness, maybe he _is_ a bit mad at him.

“No, no.” he hears Jaskier shuffling under the covers of the bed, but he doesn't get closer. Geralt can feel the warmth of his body, but it almost feels ephemeral. He feels no contacts in his skin, and he almost feels cold. “No, I just... I couldn't help it, I couldn't stop a totally normal reaction of my body. I hoped that... well, nevermind. It's unimportant.”

Geralt frowns. He's pretty sure that Jaskier wanted to say something else to him, something important. It's just a feeling, of course, but even that evening, when they ate in the common room of the tavern, Jaskier hidden under his coat and Geralt with a scowl twisting his lips, he had the same sensation. Jaskier's silence was surely a hint, but also, under the hood, Geralt could clearly see his face blank, deep in contemplation of whatever he was looking into the porridge he was eating. Once or twice, Jaskier opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it with a click, looked around at the oblivious patrons around them, and kept eating in silence.

And Geralt doesn't want that Jaskier refrains from talking to him, just because Geralt is too weak. So, he turns with his back against the uncomfortable mattress, and cocks his head so he can look at him right in his blue, shiny eyes, brightening by the embers from the fireplace. “What?” he asks, hoping that Jaskier would just open up to him.

Not that he deserves that, but...

“It's really nothing.” Jaskier's lips are pressed against each others in a light pout, his long lids fanning around the cut of his eyes. Fuck, he wants so much to kiss him, right here, right now. He doesn't even have to look beyond his chin, he doesn't fucking care of the slender line of his neck, of the soft tightness of his chemise around his chest. All he needs it's there, in front of his eyes, with Jaskier looking at him with his usual pleading – pleading of _what –_ stare and pouting lips. But still, he does nothing. “I just thought that, maybe, _perhaps_ , things would have been different, now. With this body, with my more... feminine curves. I guessed I could have been more of your... preference, let's say that. But clearly, I was wrong: the problem, all along, wasn't my body. Was... the problem _is_ just _me_.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he grunts, not understanding.

Jaskier looks at him right in his eyes, then his lids flutter and, finally, he lowers his gaze. He inhales, deeply, and raises a hand to start caressing his cheek, resting it slightly above his cheekbone. His thumb, ever so soft, draws circles under his eyes. “Forget it. I was just blabbing, as always. Aren't you tired? You definitely must be tired, I didn't give you a break these couple of days. You have to go on a contract tomorrow, have you? You should sleep. I don't want you to have any other kind of distraction that isn't me.”

“You distract me a lot.”

Jaskier smiles, his eyes twinkle of his typical mischief. But still, he seems a bit off. “I'm the bane of your existence, Geralt.”

Geralt tries, he really does, to reciprocate his smile. There's still something churning his stomach, still something he might take into consideration but he's not. Something important, something that Jaskier – with his frivolous words and ambiguous sentences – was trying to say to him. “You are.” he just murmurs, and Jaskier chuckles softly, his hand falling off his cheek. Geralt immediately misses the warmth of his touch, but he still doesn't say anything.

“I'll come with you tomorrow.” Jaskier says, blinking. He's starting to feel sleepy, by now Geralt can put a meaning in every grimace of his face. Or maybe, most of them; particularly of his needs. Not so much his emotions: if he cannot understand them by his scent, he mostly feels lost at sea. As he feels right now, after all.

“You shouldn't. It's safer here.”

“Is it? Well, I guess it is. Here there is no monsters trying to rip my ribcage open, that's for sure. I can take care of myself in your absence, at least for half a day. Maybe I can perform! I can still wear your coat on and hid my face, or part of it at least, and present myself as a new bard. I kind of miss performing in front of a willingly crowd.”

“No.”

Jaskier blinks, “What?”

“No, you'll stay here, hidden away.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth wide in a dramatic disbelief. “Not even my _mother_ could kept me caged in my own room for more than half an hour, Geralt, and even though I love you, you dumbass, you make no difference.”

Geralt tries to not react at his casual confession. It's not the first time, nor probably the last, and Geralt already knows that Jaskier loves him, as Jaskier obviously knows that Geralt feels the same – even though he never said it out loud like him, it should be so obvious that is almost written on his face. Right? – but Geralt... feels so unworthy. He isn't worth of a thing as pure and as beautiful as Jaskier's love. So, things will always be platonic, no matter how much Geralt wants to kiss his pout away.

“I can't stop whatever people might do to you. What if they recognize you and put you at a stake? What if they don't recognize you, but they see you like... like _this_ , see you so... so...” _beautiful_ , he wants to say, but he was beautiful even as a boy, and Geralt didn't have the same worry as he's feeling now. It's just that now, now the world is darker for him, men themselves are worse than monsters – and Geralt can't let that darkness stain the perfect, sunny light around him. “Hm. I, I can't do anything to take you out of trouble, if I'm not there.”

Jaskier cradles his face between the palms of his hands, and with the most serious expression he can muster with the soft lines of his face, he exclaims: “You are as sweet as a cinnamon roll.” Geralt rolls his eyes, and Jaskier chuckles, without stopping touching him. “But I can take care of myself. It must not be so obvious, but I'm very strong! The hard life on the road helped me to gain some muscles, especially my legs'.” Yes. Geralt knows that. He saw his legs, briefly, during his bath, and they are thick, muscled. Not as a witcher, but definitely strong enough. They are perfect. “I can kick whoever would dare saying that my songs are shits, right in their balls. I had balls, I know the pain they would feel in beyond comprehension.”

“Hm.” Geralt smiles, and tries not to think about Jaskier being kicked in his balls when he was a boy. “Still. Kicks could not be enough.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, briefly, and inhales dramatically. “Alas, the things I do for you. Alright, alright, I won't perform, I won't dance, I won't sing, I won't catch their attentions. I take this as a favour you owe me, I hope you are aware.”

As long as Jaskier is safe, it's fine. “Hm, yes.”

“Good. So, I will stay all alone here, in this room that doesn't even have a lock, waiting for my witcher to come back from his hunts. Maybe... oh, did you see the waiter this evening, during dinner? Do you think that he would accept to come up here, to... help me pass the time, tomorrow? I don't like to be alone, and he is cute. Maybe a bit young, he seems to be in his mid–twenty, but I'm not gonna be too picky.”

“ _What_.” Geralt feels his blood boil, “We... we just said that you don't have to catch unwanted attention!” he growls. His nostrils flare, and he's probably baring his teeth. Jaskier doesn't seem perturbed by the scene, on the contrary: Geralt feels like he's fallen right into a trap.

“Well, it's not _unwanted_. I can handle very well a single boy's attention, Geralt.” Jaskier smiles, innocently. This little shit, he'll be the death of him. “And there's that little, tiny problem of my virginity, remember? Before we find a mage, I have to take care of it!”

Geralt tightens his lips, and looks at Jaskier – who looks back so candidly that Geralt almost feels bad at being so fucking irate at him. Almost – and... and...

And surrenders.

“Fine, fine, you little shit!” he growls, while Jaskier's eyes twinkle victoriously, “You'll come with me tomorrow!”

Geralt falls asleep with Jaskier's _hoorays_ in his ears, and a voice that resembles so much like Vesemir's that keeps telling him that he's so, so, _so fucked._


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you sure that whatever you are hunting is here?” Jaskier sniffs, and Geralt hears some ruffling behind his back. He does not turn to see what he's doing, already knowing that even without looking at him. “Damn... these... _tits_... they are so fucking _bulky_... they are as annoying as they are flawless.”

Geralt snorts. “They are.” he says, without thinking. Then winces, and curses mentally.

“What did you say?”

Only then, Geralt turns and looks at Jaskier, seated elegantly on Roach with crossed legs – how can he sit like that on a horse, it's beyond his comprehension – , coat tight around him and a confused expression on his face. Good. He hasn't heard him. “I said that you have to _shut. Your. Mouth._ I'm hunting.”

“ _We're_ hunting for the last...” Jaskier counts with his long fingers, tapping against his lips at every number he thinks, dramatically. “Five hours, I daresay. If this basilisk was really here, it would have already come out of his hiding to, I don't know, turn us into statues? Bite us into our next lives? It would have done _something,_ something!”

“It _will_ eat you if you just don't shut up!”

That's one of the many reasons Geralt doesn't want Jaskier to come to his hunts. He has no self preservation, as always, and one of these times he'll get surely killed. And most importantly, Jaskier distracts him; he does it with his witty words, with his loud chatters, with his inebriating scent, with his... new... curves, with his eyes that keep looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for Geralt to surrender, to give in.

The little shit knows that Geralt is weak, and he's so, so close to crack.

“Yeah, sure. If only this fathomable basilisk really existed.” he yawns, and stretches his arms, “If only it existed, I would have made a perfect song for it. But alas, I have to disappoint my admirers. Oh, how I loathe to disappoint them.”

“It doesn't matter. You can't perform it anyway.”

If Geralt couldn't see it, he could have clearly heard Jaskier's flinch, and felt the wave of sadness coming off him. Shit. That was a low blow, after all they don't know for how long he has to still be undercover, unable to sing and dance, unable to do the things that keeps him alive without the risk to jeopardize his safety. They still don't know where to find a mage – even less the same witch that turned him into a boy when he was just a teenager – and the wait, and the uselessness is making Jaskier sad, unhappy. Geralt hates the thought of him unhappy.

“Right. Too bad. I would really have made a beautiful song.”

Geralt sighs, and– well, if he just drops his guard for less than a minute, enough to make Jaskier smile again, nothing bad would happen, right? After all, it really seems that Geralt chooses the wrong moment to go hunting the monster of his contract. “I will find a mage as soon as possible, Jaskier.” he says, walking slowly towards him, “Everything will go back to normal.”

And there it is, his smile. Every time he does that, his lids slightly flutter, before closing his eyes while his lips stretch wide open. Almost non–existent wrinkles appear right above his round cheekbones, and Geralt feels like he's walking on water, like he's been the best man alive to have this just for _him –_ but he's not _his_ , not _his_.

But then, Jaskier talks. And like every time Jaskier starts to blab – being for embarrassment, for stupidity or the Gods just know what – blood starts to boil in Geralt's vein. “Not too soon, my dear witcher. I still have to gift my virginity to a very lucky man, then I can say to have experienced really everything in life!”

Geralt feels his face twists, “You do _not_ have to.”

“Yeah, I don't have to.” Jaskier cocks his head, looking at him through long lashes, “But I _want_ to. Modestly, all the women I made love with, they tested this, this _grand_ pleasure, a pleasure that I, sadly, cannot compare to mine, considering I never experienced it before, but it seems so, Gods, so _rip–roaring_. Now I have this opportunity, and I don't want to give that up!” he sighs, and, horrifyingly, he sounds so _dreamy_. “The man that will give me such immense pleasure is waiting for me, out there.” then, Jaskier looks straight into his eyes, “I just have to find him.”

“That's bullshit.” Geralt says, through gritted teeth, “You will just, just throw yourself into the arms of the first man willing to bed you.”

And is that an unbearable thought, after all. He feels his blood run cold through his veins, his skin prickles and his muscles tense just thinking of Jaskier being touched, being manhandled, being violated by a stranger, an unworthy man. It's always been painful thinking that, even when he was a boy, but now... now, fuck, it's his _first_ time.

Geralt would never forgive himself – even if it's not his fucking business, nor his fucking fault – if the experience Jaskier so much wants turns out to be disappointed. Or worse, painful.

“If that man won't let himself be found, I will have to settle with what I get.” Jaskier shrugs, and leans to caress Roach's mane. She neighs softly, and Jaskier smiles, content. “I can't wait forever, even if would like to.”

Geralt lowers his eyes, cursing mentally. He knows what Jaskier wants, and he wants it from _him_. Geralt is not so stupid, he can clearly catch the hints Jaskier is throwing at him – but he can't surrender to him, he can't. He can't stain him, and destroy him as he did with everything – everyone – else. Does that mean that Geralt has to see – _hear_ , fuck – him being fucked by some stranger? A stranger man who'll never be worthy enough – as will never Geralt, after all?

Yes. Yes, fucking Gods, _yes_.

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier's voice seems hesitant. Geralt raises his eyes, hoping he doesn't resemble like a deer caught by a lightening, he doesn't want Jaskier to see the turmoil he's feeling inside himself. But Jaskier is just looking at him with a frown, and with a raised hand. Slowly, he gestures him to come closer, and, of course, Geralt does that without much of a thought. “Come here, you have...” he trails off, while Geralt finds himself right in front of him, still seated someway on Roach.

Jaskier _licks_ the palm of his hand, and Geralt has to remember how to breath again. Fuck, how can he be like this, so sensual doing the most stupid things! Then, he puts the same hand on his cheeks, rubbing whatever is staining his face. He has a very concentrated expression on, and his tongue – Gods, his _tongue –_ is peeping out his lips absentmindedly, his attention all towards the action he's doing. While his palm is rubbing with force against his stubble, Geralt just enjoys his vicinity, the sweet and slightly salty scent of his sweat, the rosy colour of his lips so upclose.

Jaskier raises his eyes, and locks them into his. They're close, too damn much close for Geralt's liking – actually, Geralt likes that very much, but he cannot let him see that, they have to remain platonic, totally platonic – and Jaskier smiles, almost victoriously, “I don't know why or _how_ you had dirt on your face, Geralt, but thanks to me you're all shiny again.”

“Hm.” he grunts, and he tries to get away from him. He really tries, but it's just... hard.

Then, behind his back, some twigs crack. Jaskier widens his blue eyes, looking beyond his shoulder, and gasps. Geralt curses, and thankfully he didn't sheathe his sword before dropping his guard, so he just turns around in a swift movement and pierces through the body of the monster that was running towards them.

Except, when Geralt looks at the dead carcass at his feet, what he killed is definitely _not_ a monster.

“Sorry, I overreacted.” says Jaskier, sheepishly. Glaring at him, Geralt sees that he's fidgeting with his fingers, and he's fighting not to smile. “Guess we have something to eat, tonight, if we're going to spend the night here.”

Geralt blinks at the dead body of the boar he killed, utterly annoyed.

“You know what I think? I think this basilisk really doesn't exist. Back at the village, they probably thought that this poor boar was a... was a giant bird. Or whatever a basilisk is, actually.”

“There are traces _everywhere_ , Jaskier. There is a basilisk here.”

“Well,” he sniffs, dramatically, as if Geralt offended him as he contradicted him. “Can you see it? Can you feel it or, I don't know, _smell_ him with your super duper witchery powers?” Geralt doesn't respond, and Jaskier struts, proud of himself. “See. Now, how about we go back to town? The very cute waiter is waiting for me.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, and glares at him again. So, this is a war. Geralt won't lose: he never did, and will never do, especially against this weak, smug, beautiful human. “We'll stay here, all night, if needed.” he smirks, and Jaskier snorts, “We have dinner, after all.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for following this silly fic!  
> Now, I would like a piece of advice, because I can't really make up my mind on this: would you rather have a bit of angst and pining and whatever with Jaskier just having sex with some random guy (just because himbo Geralt can't really get his head out of his own ass, poor bby) or you prefer the sappy, cliched "happy ending" (that would _not_ be the end, just saying) with Jaskier just, you know, throwing himself on Geralt and getting ravished? I kinda like, for once, to follow the guilty pleasure, even if it's a bit unoriginal with the whole losing the virginity with the love of your life thing, but still, what do you think? Let me know!

Jaskier has a frown on, his tongue pokes out from between his lips in concentration. He hasn't a good expression on, he's strained – emotionally, at least – and maybe exasperated, and there's a tiny droplet of blood staining the tip of his smooth chin.

Thankfully for Geralt's mental sanity, it's not his blood. “You know what, I don't understand what the fuck happens in that thick head of yours half the damn time. Like, now. Why did you do that? I thought you _needed_ me as a bait, that's why you brought me here with you, right?”

“No. I won't use you as a bait.” Geralt hisses, gritting his teeth. The needle between Jaskier's fingers pierces through the tender skin of his wound, and Geralt breathes heavily through his nose. Jaskier's frown increases, but he doesn't take his eyes away from the job of patching him up.

“It's hardly the first time, Geralt.” he sighs, grimacing just as much while his fingers get soaked in his blood, “You never made a fuss before, and you acted really reckless. You never do that on a hunt! That's my priority! What's different, now? Is it because I have a woman's body?” he says, narrowing his blue eyes.

“I never used you as a bait when there were _real_ risks, Jaskier, for fuck's sake.” he growls, then he pants when Jaskier just pulls the thread and cuts it, closing the throbbing wound. In silence, he gathers the cloth he used before to clean up the wound, and wets it again with the water in his waterskin, trying to clean the wound again from all the blood.

“Make sense, I guess.” he says, at last. His eyes don't raise from the closed wound on his flank, right under his armpit and runs down his hip. It's a big wound, but it's not something fatal, but Jaskier is being on edge since he got hit by that damned basilisk, stinking so fearful and so wrong Geralt almost thought that next to him there were a doppler and not his bard. He was wrong, of course. Jaskier was just so, so scared _for_ him, scared of all the blood pouring out of him as he continued to fight, scared that the moment the beast died he would have followed it immediately.

Geralt had got this wound just because the basilisk lauched itself towards Jaskier, and he didn't think straight after that. He never thinks straight whenever Jaskier is around, especially on hunts, especially when there is a real danger closing its claws around him. It's not really Jaskier's fault – not completely, because he fucking told him to stay back with Roach and stay out of trouble – but it's mostly Geralt's distraction to blame.

Jaskier, with the most delicate touch, covers his whole torso with bandages. For once, Jaskier seems just so worried about him that he doesn't make any comments or appreciations about his nakedness, as his usual. The only gestures he lets himself have, is a light, almost without pressure, caress right up at the now covered wound. “There.” he murmurs, almost a whisper in the dead of the night surrounding them, “All patched up. Knowing you, you'll be as good as a stallion tomorrow morning.”

“I doubt as a stallion. Make it tomorrow evening, and I maybe can rival Roach.”

Jaskier smiles, and finally looks at him in the eyes. “Don't... do that again.”

“What? Fighting basilisks?”

“You know what I mean.” Jaskier's breath trembles slightly as he inhales, “You just run in front of it and took the hit. You could have, I don't know, hit him first or whatever. Don't get hit ever again.”

“That's quite difficult. My job provides getting hits back.”

“Still.” his little mouth tights, and the frown reappears on his forehead. “Don't do that again like _that_. Gods, Geralt, there were blood _everywhere_ , and your fucking insides were outside! They are called _insides_ because they have to be there. Into you. Not out. Was that your intestine?”

“No. Just muscles. The wound wasn't so deep.”

“Yeah, sure, just muscles. You make it sound so simple, so normal. It is fucking not. Don't do that again. Melitele's fucking tits, are you getting hurt so much every time when I'm not around?”

Geralt shifts on his bedroll until he lays on his back. He's been on his side for an hour or so, while Jaskier cleaned and patched him up, so now all his right side tingles uncomfortably. He looks at Jaskier, seated on his knees next to him, the light of the fire – a fire Jaskier lighted all himself, so it's already dying – making his silhouette glowing, a golden halo all around him. He thanked his enhanced senses, so he can still see his expression in the dark, and he sees his pout and his worried frown, but now he's probably thinking that Geralt isn't dying in a moment or later, because he seems to be relieved, if maybe a bit outraged.

It's just like him being offended if Geralt saved his fucking life. “As I said, it's part of the job.”

“I know that. But I never saw you... like this. You scared the shit out of me.”

Geralt would really laugh at him, but it's not probably the best outcome. It would probably make Jaskier sad. “It's not even the worst wound I have ever got.”

“You know, I don't really want to know the details. I know, it's a surprise for me too. But it's not really so appealing to know that you... _bleed_. And had your insides out. Or, worst things.”

“I always bleed.”

“I'm aware.” he shrugs, “Still.” Jaskier traces the veins popping on his arm and forearm, absentmindedly. Geralt can clearly hears the gears in his mind working on something, on an idea, on the thought of him probably dead in a ditch while fighting against a wyvern. Who knows. But Jaskier shouldn't think about those things, Jaskier should just tell tales and sing songs, he should just be preoccupied about finding a good rhyme for his poetry and his fingers should just be stained with ink. Even though he knows Jaskier deserves better, deserves _more_ , Geralt can just stain his fingers with his own blood.

At last, Jaskier sighs dramatically. He grabs Geralt's cloak, drops in his bedroll and covers them both, cuddling against his good side. Geralt stiffs, and Jaskier snorts. Warm puffs of breath caress his neck, right where Jaskier hid his face, and Geralt feels his entire body flush against his, all his warmth and curves and scent surrounding him like a delicate silk sheet. “Jaskier.” he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and stills. He doesn't know where to put his hands. His wound pulls, throbs and hurts, but the side where Jaskier is seems to be on fucking _fire_.

“Could you, please.” he murmurs against his neck, and Geralt feels the movement of his mouth and lips on his own skin, it tickles and it almost makes him shivers. “Let me cuddle with you for, for just this night? You really scared the shit out of me, Geralt. Now I want to hear your heartbeat under my ears and feel your oh so manly chest raising under my cheek as you breathe. Just for this night, then I won't bother you again. I can't really promise you this, but I at least will try.”

Geralt blinks, looking at the shadows of the trees, looking at the black sky above them. There are no stars tonight, but Geralt doesn't fucking care at all. He feels... he feels so _loved_ , fuck, so loved it's unfair. “Hm.”

“Oh ohoh, that is a yes, I daresay.” Geralt can feel his smug smile on his skin. His lips caress his neck as he moves to settle better, his arm is on his chest and his hand is covering the other side of his neck, with the tip of his fingers touching almost shyly his nape. His scent overwhelms him, and his breasts are squished between them. Geralt wonders how Jaskier can breathe like this, it seems there is no room for him to expand his chest more, but he seems to be fine. Content. So it's okay. “It's a yes, right?” he asks again, and again, his lips move against his skin.

“Hm.”

“Yeah, okay, I am pretty sure that it's a yes, then. So, you know, if you don't really mind, you can follow my example and, uh, hug me too. It's not difficult, believe me. If you get used to it, you can find it really satisfying!”

Geralt snorts, “I know how to hug.”

“Didn't say that. I just think that you get hugged less than you deserve.”

Geralt snorts again, and finally, he puts his arms around Jaskier. His hand immediately sinks into the mop of his hair, and somehow, the gesture draws him even more against him. Not that Geralt is unhappy for that, on the contrary: he loves feeling the soft edges of Jaskier's body, his smoothness, his long legs tangled around his. He doesn't care about the wound, the pain that is starting to get really annoying even though he put the potions on it, he would really like to stay like this for all the eternity, if possible. He doesn't even think about sex, about his so provocative body: he's just feeling _Jaskier_ there, next to him, starting to fall asleep after tending his injuries, and he's thinking that he wouldn't change this moment with anything else. Even if he doesn't deserve this at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read all your comments, and I'm really happy that literally all of you want the sappy fuck. I want it too!  
> Thank you so much for following this silly fic, I will write and give what the people wants - but not very soon lmao. Geralt is still an himbo, that's a fact!

Geralt wakes up when the sun is still hidden behind the trees, his golden rays hitting the ground around the clearing, where Jaskier brought him after he got hit, just enough to let the leaves glow green, but not enough to wake Jaskier up.

He's sleeping profoundly, snoring sweetly against his sweaty – and maybe wet of Jaskier's drool – shoulder; his eyelids flutter slightly, tingling his skin as he follows whatever he's dreaming; his whole body is twitching as he always do, unable to stay still even in his slumber. Geralt closes his eyes the second he's opened them, wanting so much to prolong this instant as much as he can, this tranquility he so rarely can feel. He wants to have Jaskier tight against him, breathing softly and smelling sweet for... for a while longer.

Most of all, he doesn't want to think about the inevitable response of his body in the mornings, having Jaskier so close and so luscious. It's not the first time, and grudgingly won't be the last, that he's had the same reaction while sleeping in the same bed as Jaskier, but usually he wakes up before him, and while he still sleeps, he goes far away from him to take care of it. Alone or, rarely, with someone. Today, he wants so much to lay next to him and pretend that everything is fine, all is well and as it should be, pretend that Jaskier is not a woman – a woman that, apparently, people want dead on a stake – and he's not a damned virgin. And that there is not an unspoken war between the two of them about this.

Geralt inhales deeply, and tries to relax his body and maybe fall into meditation, but not even a second later he hears Jaskier's heart start beating slightly faster, and his breathing losing the softly cadence of sleep. Geralt doesn't move, hoping that the bard wouldn't fully wake, or at least wouldn't get away from him – but, as always, Jaskier starts squirming a bit, maybe trying to find a better position, and in doing that, his knee inevitably strokes against his half–hard cock, and he doesn't growl just because he's trying so much to not make a sound. He's hoping that Jaskier will just go back to sleep.

And, surprisingly, after squirming just for a bit more, he probably finds himself comfortable enough and sinks again his face in the crook of his neck, hiding himself from the light of the dawn. But he doesn't sleep, not anymore: Geralt can feel as his breathe and his heartbeat aren't calm. One of his hand is open wide on his chest, and it's twitching a bit. Geralt doesn't inhales deeply again, but the sweet scent of his arousal fills his nostrils nonetheless.

Obviously, thanks to that, his cock is now full and is throbbing painfully against his underclothes. Jaskier is completely aware of that, considering his heavy breathing and his – Gods – he's tightening his thighs together as he did the other day during his bath, but now between his thighs there's Geralt leg, and... and it's so warm, there in the middle of his thighs, so warm and so fragrant, it's intoxicating.

“Gods, please.” Jaskier murmurs, with a broken voice. Geralt can feel him fidgeting with the hem of the cloak covering them, touching that to refrain himself to let his hand wander in other places. He probably still thinks that he's asleep. “Geralt, Gods, please, wake up.”

“Hm.” he grunts, because he's probably an idiot, and because he– fuck, he doesn't want to stop Jaskier, whatever he wants to do, he's free to do so. He wants to let him know he's awake and aware of him, and everything is okay even if it's fucking not.

“Oh, fuck.” Jaskier raises his face from where he hid it in the crook of Geralt's neck, and looks at him with big, pleading – oh, then that's what he always wanted, with this look – and so blue eyes. His lips are red and tortured by his own teeth – and he, he wants to do the same – and there's still a dry stain of blood on his chin. He's perfect, and beautiful. He wants to kiss him so damn much. “You're awake. Good. It's good that you're awake.” he swallows, and he flutters his lashes. “Are you alright? The, your wound?”

Geralt doesn't lower his eyes. He's looking at his lips, he doesn't care at all about his wound, that it's probably already regenerated. “Fine.”

“Good.” Jaskier repeats, getting closer. His legs open, welcoming Geralt's thigh between them, getting even more closer to that warmth that Geralt so much wants to sink himself into it, wants to feel it in every piece of his cold body. “Then, Geralt. Don't. Don't stop me.”

Geralt doesn't respond at that useless command. Of course he won't stop him, he's unable to. He just, closes the gap between them and then, finally, kisses him as his heart desires. Jaskier moans in his mouth, opening it almost obscenely and deepening the kiss while he straddles to get on his lap, his leg around his waist, and his, Gods, his cunt right where his cock is probably making a hole in his underclothes. Even with still his pants on, Jaskier's warmth is overwhelming, and his scent inebriating, and he kisses like a thirsty man in the desert.

Geralt wants more. He wants this every fucking morning. And evening. And night.

“Geralt.” Jaskier hiccups against his lips, “Get off your clothes.”

Something, someone, probably a better version of himself in his head tells him it's wrong, and he doesn't really want to get farther from Jaskier's lips, so he ignores his command and keeps on kissing him, enjoying Jaskier's fingers around his face, enjoying the soft edges of his body pushing against his hard ones. Jaskier bites his lower lip, and shifts on, rubbing inevitably on his cock. Geralt almost bites his own tongue not to moan himself, but Jaskier, of course, has not the same self–control, so he trembles and starts moving onto him, stroking his clothed cock with his clothed cunt.

“Geralt, fuck, Geralt. Look at you.” Jaskier pants, and he kisses him again, he leaves his mouth with a loud _pop_ and looks at him with his so honest eyes, eyes so full of love and– and– fuck, there's a glint of _victory_ shining in the blue of his irises, a satisfaction of finally having what he desired for so long, as he keeps pushing against his throbbing cock. “Majestic. And I haven't seen your cock yet.”

“You have. A lot of times.” he tells him, just because he needs a distraction, he needs Jaskier to talk so he doesn't come too soon in his pants like a virgin adolescent.

“Not up close. And not at its fullest.” Jaskier's eyes twinkle, and he fastens his pace. The pressure on his cock becomes unbearable, and Jaskier pants and trembles. “Now I'll let you finally come like this, _I_ will, because I can't wait anymore. And then, then I want it deep inside me. I want to feel it bumping against the back of my throat.”

He comes with his lips pressing against his, hot and swollen, because in the end his talking had the opposite effect, his dirty words made his blood boil and his scent becoming more and more and more sweet and strong, filling his nose and his mind, brought him over the edge.

Jaskier comes mere seconds later, Geralt doesn't stop moving and neither does he until his whole body writhes with spasms of pleasure – and at last, he falls with his head on his chest, panting deeply. Geralt didn't even acknowledge the fact that he had his hands on him all this time, and now he has his arms around him and he's tightening them to take him, if possible, even closer.

After a beat of silence, Jaskier chuckles. “Gods, you're a fucking furnace.” he says, and his breathing is starting to get calmer, as his heartbeat. Even though he says that, he doesn't go away, on the contrary: he cuddles closer as he did during the night, almost smothering himself in the crook of his neck, uncaring of the sweat and the probably bad smell. He doesn't care at all. He genuinely wants to stay like this, sticking close to him as if his life depends on it.

He always wanted that. Geralt shouldn't feel so surprised.

Well, Jaskier has won, it seems.

He bristles, at that thought. No, he hasn't won. They just were... frotting against each other, and nothing more. They didn't have sex, that was not sex: Jaskier is still a virgin, and Geralt didn't– didn't– _stained_ or _ruined_ him or whatever.

“Geralt?” Jaskier's fingers touch his cheek, and push them to turn his face to look at him. His eyes, big and trusting, probably read something in his that he doesn't like, because the happy light in them suddenly dims as he frowns. “What's passing in that thick head of yours?”

“Hm.” that's all he's able to say, probably because he _is_ an idiot.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Now it's not the time to your, your grunting and brooding. Now it's the time for talking, Geralt, I need... I need you to _tell_ me things.” He bites his lowers lips, but he doesn't falter his stare. When Geralt still keeps silent, he continues: “It's not like you hated it, I kinda see with my two eyes that you have very much enjoyed what we just have done. And, and _you_ kissed me first. This must mean something, right?”

“I don't know what you want from me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stares at him, “Isn't it quite obvious?”

It is. But Geralt can't find the courage to tell him that, or to accept what Jaskier is giving him – or rather, wants from him. It depends on the perspective, really. He just feels... wrong, somehow. It doesn't matter how much Geralt wants Jaskier, after all this time, now seems to be just _wrong_. He can't even explain himself why.

At his silence, Jaskier closes his eyes, and snorts, “Figures.” he murmurs, and – much to Geralt's dismay – gets up and take his bag from the ground, probably going behind a tree so he can change clothes – unlikely, he's never been the shy type, not even now with a woman's body – or to go to the nearest river to clean himself – more likely. “Listen up, you– you– Gods, I don't even _want_ to insult you now. You better make up your mind about all of this, Geralt, and you better do it soon, because when we'll reach town, what I so heartily want to be yours, will inevitably be someone else's.”

Said that, he storms off into the forest around the clearing. He thankfully doesn't go too far, Geralt is still hearing him whatever he's doing, but he doesn't have the head to think about if he's washing himself or if he's taking a godsdamn piss.

He just feels like he's been completely immersed in dogshit. Fuck.


	7. Chapter 7

The ride back town is filled with an angry and slightly worrisome silence, especially because Geralt can quite feel the nervousness coming off Jaskier as they walk. He even refuses to get on Roach, riding then behind him, with a narrowing gaze and a terrible pout that it has meant to be threatening but really, it is just adorable. “You won't get away from the situation with being generous this once. I'm not that easy.” he sniffs, raising his nose to the sky and quickening his pace.

Geralt just sighs and follows him, trotting slowly behind his stomping, the head of the basilisk bumping against Roach's side at every step. But once they arrive at the stable next to the inn, adding to his nervousness there is anger. Geralt can read it clearly into his blue eyes, the ire he's feeling towards him, accentuated now that Geralt still says nothing.

“Fine.” he hisses, hands on his hips. Geralt tries to not let his eyes wander where they are, knowing that his waist is soft and slightly wide and tempting. “Fine, if that's what you want, this will you get!” he stumbles towards the tavern's door next road, fumbling with the cloak's knot around his neck, When he finally gets off it, Jaskier throws it at him.

Geralt growls, “Jaskier!”

“Leave me be!” he says, with his back at him. “Someone's gonna look at me very clearly, oh yes they will, and they inevitably fall in love. How could they not! Look at me, I am stunning!” Oh Gods, he _is_. “I am done hiding, and I am done listening to your bullshit. Go get your pay, and then, I don't know, do whatever you want. Just don't wait for me tonight.”

Geralt grits his teeth, and follows his steps with still his cloak in his hand. “Jaskier!”

“I believe the alderman that gave you the job is that way!”

Geralt ignores him, and enters into the tavern right behind him. Jaskier doesn't stop at a table, and neither asks for a pint of ale. There is already a mediocre bard playing for a small crowd, there is dancing and singing and laughing, and Jaskier's eyes are already shining in trepidation. He immediately joins the crowd, leaving Geralt awkwardly alone in front of the bar.

“Ale?” he hears a man say, and when he turns around, behind the counter there what probably is the owner.

Geralt grunts, not trusting his own voice. He feels angry himself, now.

He takes the mug from the counter the second the owner has filled it, drinking avidly. His eyes don't leave Jaskier's dancing body, and he growls and almost breaks the mug with a bite, when he sees Jaskier's hand touching another man ones, as they dance together.

The man behind him snorts, probably following his stare. “Lovers quarrel?”

What? _No_. No, it's not a lovers anything between them. Geralt is just out of your mind with anger because that idiot will get himself killed, and Geralt can't do fucking anything about that. And for what? For just a _fuck_. Jaskier is a wanted man – woman, he's wanted as a woman after all – and all he's thinking about is to get laid. He doesn't think about his self well–being, he doesn't think that he needs to be cautious and not drawing useless attentions on himself. And he's doing the fucking contrary!

Jaskier's fingers tangle around the stranger one as the music loses its cheerful beat, starting a much more slow melody. They look at each others eyes, dancing around each other on tip toes. The tall, brown haired, handsome stranger twirls Jaskier and he laughs, then Jaskier cocks an eyebrow as a sign of challenge and tries to do the same to him. The man is taken aback, but he lets himself be twirled around nonetheless. The other patrons claps their hands, the sound is deafening and frustrating, so much that Geralt almost thinks that his ears will start bleeding soon. Displeasure tingles on his skin, an acrid taste settles on his tongue and he thinks that he drank the most disgusting ale of the whole Continent. Jealousy is pooling down his stomach, watching the radiant look on Jaskier's reddening face.

Yes, fuck. He's not stupid. An idiot, perhaps, but not stupid. He doesn't like Jaskier touching another man – never liked it, but then, Jaskier has always flirted with women before his transformation, hasn't he? It's different. Geralt's always been the only– he's– the only man for him. And he, he wants things to stay like this.

“Glaring at other men won't help, lad.” the owner says, and Geralt turns again to look at him with an exasperated stare, almost choking on his own tongue to not growl at the innocent man. He snorts, watching the laughing crowd. Then, he looks at him with a sympathetic expression, “Not even a glare from a witcher.”

“Hm.” Geralt gulps the last sip of his ale, still ignoring whatever the man is trying to say to him. What does he want, by the way? He knows nothing about Jaskier's situation, about _their_ situation. He should just shut the fuck up. But when Geralt brings his eyes on the crowd again, Jaskier is nowhere to be seen. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Told ya, witcher.”

The second he gets closer to the crowd, Jaskier's sweet scent fills his nostrils. It brings him upstairs, where the music and the chaos is muffled, the ambient is calmer and scented with herbs from the plants at the angles of the corridors – but they're not enough to smother Jaskier's traces, they're not enough fragrant and intoxicating as he is. Geralt feels traces of excitement molded in Jaskier's scent, together with a mediocre, unpleasant one that is probably the stranger's smell.

Their traces end in front of a closed door, to which Geralt starts to knock vehemently against. “Jaskier!” he thunders, bumping into the wooden door, almost breaking it.

Inside, he hears two different gasps, then an annoyed groan. “Fuck off, Geralt!”

“Open. Or I will break down the door.”

He hears Jaskier snorts, and a rustle. Probably clothes falling off, and a growl arises from his throat. “You don't have enough money to pay the damn tavern owner, if you do. Go away!”

“If I go away now, Jaskier, you won't find me at the inn.” Silence is what answers him, the echo of his words seems to be deafening, “I'll go my way out of town. Without you.”

Geralt knows he isn't playing fair. He's threatening to leave Jaskier behind, and it's not the first time he does that, but now it really feels... bad. It feels like a mean thing to do, a disgusting way to obtain what he wants.

He almost flees, because probably the kindest thing he could to do for Jaskier, now, is just to leave him live his life, without interferences, without jealousy. The jealousy he's feeling is with no foundation, because even if there is love between them, Geralt isn't in the place to force Jaskier to stay away from people.

Geralt himself hasn't accepted that place, the place that Jaskier so much desires would be his, after all.

But he stays there, regardless his guilt, when Jaskier opens the door with a slow motion. His expression is hurt, when Geralt finally sees his face – the cheerful dancing bard in the crowd of half an hour ago is completely disappeared. “This is unfair, Geralt.” he says, without meeting his gaze.

“I know. I wouldn't... I would not have really left you.”

“Somehow,” he sighs, “That's even worse.”

The room where Jaskier and the stranger man locked themselves in, it's just a storage room. It stinks of spicy herbs and the brown haired man's sweat. Geralt doesn't give the man time to whine about the situation, complain that Geralt is bothering them – Geralt growls, and the man flees without uttering a word.

Jaskier chuckles. He has disheveled hair, and his chemise is slightly wrinkled. His doublet is nowhere to be seen, but there is no traces on his skin, no red marks or lovebites. His lips are not swollen as they were that very morning, so he hasn't even kissed the man. “There goes my evening. I didn't like him that much, if I'm to be honest.”

“And you wanted to spend your evening... with him? There?” asks Geralt, grimacing as he looks inside the room behind Jaskier's back. “You deserve more. You deserve at least a bed.” Finally, Jaskier raises his eyes to look at him, and there is no more hurt lingering in there, but it's just a curious stare that Geralt can't quite understand. “What?”

“You're right,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “I deserve more.”

Geralt frowns, and tentatively raises a hand to caress his cheek. It's slightly damp, probably because he's still sweaty from the dancing, but it's soft and there's a blush of red that is not caused by the strain. He lets their foreheads bump against each other, their noses stroke softly together.

If only they could stay like this for all eternity.


	8. Chapter 8

They leave the nameless town right after dawn. Jaskier waits for him outside the alderman's house, he doesn't even make a fuss to come inside with him: he just stays there, nuzzling Roach's mane and murmuring nonsense into her ears. When Geralt comes back to them and gets up on Roach, it feels natural to stretch a hand toward Jaskier and help him up sitting behind him. Jaskier tightens his arms around his waist, steadying himself to not fall on the ground the second Roach starts to move – and Geralt knows that he needn't to stay so close, to hug him so tenderly and cuddling against him, but he doesn't complain. He lets Jaskier do as he wishes.

They ride the Path as the sun makes its way through the sky in a quiet pace, in a comfortable silence. Jaskier hums softly in his ears, his hands grip the hem of his shirt that comes out of his armor. His fingers tip–tap on his stomach, following the rhythm in his head.

“Oh, how I wish to sing.” he sighs, after a while. He lets Jaskier rest his chin on his shoulder. “Yesterday that bard was nothing compared to me, and still I felt so envious of him. It's stupid, I know. The ballads were all so dull, and did you notice that nothing rhymed?” No. Geralt doesn't care about those things – and in that moment, he was too occupied watching Jaskier's movements. “Don't you miss my singing?”

“You could sing. Now. No one's around.”

He feels Jaskier's smile against his neck, “Does that mean you indeed miss it?” Geralt grins, but doesn't say anything. That's enough of an answer. “Alas, I'm too comfortable like this. I don't want to,” he falls silent for a second, tightening his arms around him, “Leave your warmth.”

“Then, later.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Eager, aren't we?”

Geralt smiles, looking straight ahead. Then, without lowering his eyes from the golden sunbathed Path in front of them, he grunts awkwardly. The night before, Jaskier just followed him back at the inn, chatting cheerfully – even if a bit forced. They slept one next to the other, without saying much about what happened, and Geralt would likely accept their unspoken truce, but it doesn't fit well in his stomach. He knows that Jaskier isn't as happy as he tries to show, and that is the last thing Geralt wants. So, unfortunately, they – or at least, he himself – need to talk. “About yesterday–”

“It doesn't matter.” Jaskier interrupts him, sighing. Then, he bristles. “No, wait. It _does_. It does matter – but really, I don't need your apologies. What I want to know is... _why_? Sometimes I really don't understand you, Geralt. You confound me. One time you make me feel wanted and loved, then the next you refuse me as if you've never...” he sniffs, and Geralt stays silent. “Half the time spent with you, I don't know what to think. Could you enlighten me, perhaps? At first I thought that you might be jealous, uh, jealous of me. But then, _why_ you still _don't_ want me? You keep refusing me again and again, and I don't know if you are aware of that, but it hurts being rejected from the one you love. Every single time. With no exception.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes, and grips Roach's reins. “Hm.” he grunts, because he really doesn't know what to say. He'd like to say something, especially the _right_ thing, so Jaskier would turn to his cheerful self again, without a care in the world.

“Usually, I love your hums and grunts and broods. But not now, my dear.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighs. This is not what he wants to talk about – this is actually the _last_ thing he wants to talk about. But he doesn't think that keeping silent will make things right, this time. “Most of the time– all the time, I– I don't think... I don't think.”

Jaskier laughs, sweetly, “You don't think?”

“No. Can't think straight. With you.”

One of Jaskier's hand, from his stomach, slides away until it grasps his, on Roach's reins. His fingers smooths the grip he has on the leather reins, and Geralt just opens his palm to welcome his hand in his. “That's quite sweet. But it seems that you think perfectly every time you refuse me, Geralt.”

“In that case,” he says, “Probably too much.”

Jaskier hums, and cocks his head slightly, probably to look better at Geralt's profile. “So that's what you do when you don't say anything. You _think_. What you think about, then?”

“You, mostly.”

“I'd love to hear more of that.”

Even if it's not cold, and the sun is high in the sky, Jaskier keeps holding him. No matter that the hot rays of sun are hitting their heads and they make them both sweaty, Jaskier still strokes the little flap of skin of his neck with his mouth and nose. It's distracting, and so close Geralt can feel all his curves against his back, feeling his warmth even through their clothes and armor. He tries to concentrate in what to say, and not the sensation his lips are making him feel. “I want to do the right thing, that's all. It's just difficult with you being... hm, _you._ ”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier chuckles, and puffs of his breath caress softly his neck. “Why, thank you then.” he feels him smile, “The right thing, you say? And what's the right thing for you? Rejecting me?”

Geralt doesn't respond to that. He really doesn't know what to say: what's the right thing? Rejecting him, yes. Don't touch him, don't stain him with his bloody hands. Don't taunt him, because he's pure, he's candid and good, even if he's still a little shit. He has to reject him, in order to do those things.

And still... still, it's difficult, so difficult breaking his heart, making him sad, even if the only blessing he wants from life is just give up. Letting him do whatever he wishes to do to him, and with him. Loving him in bright light, for everyone to see that he's his, so no one would ever dare to touch him or even think of touching him.

“I know that...” Jaskier sniffs, then he hides his face in the crook of his neck, “I know that you don't love me the same as I do, and that's okay. Sometimes your actions are so lovely that I kinda forget, I am deeply sorry if I was being too... forceful? My intent was never to imprison you in an unwanted relationship – don't get me wrong, it's _obvious_ that that's what my heart desires, but I don't want it if it's one–sided. I am no masochist, thank you very much.”

Geralt frowns, and tugs Roach's reins so she immediately stops in her tracks. Then, he turns slightly around, so he can, awkwardly but it doesn't matter, look at him in the eye. His shiny, pleadingly eyes. “What?”

“What what?”

“I do.” he says, confused. What the fuck is he saying? How could he say that, when loving him it's the reason Geralt's having all this stupid feelings and sensations and he's doing all this stupid gestures and acts?

“You do, what?”

“Hm.” Is he trying to piss him off? And yet, confusion is all Geralt read in his awed expression. “I. I love you. Thought it was obvious.”

Jaskier blinks. Then widens his eyes, “It was really not obvious _at all_.” he murmurs, and in a second, the most wide smile appears on his face, his eyes twinkle with happiness, his round cheeks blush with content embarrassment. “But I kind of suspected.”

“Good.” Geralt turns, and urges Roach to start walking again. “Now you're sure.”

Jaskier is radiating happiness in waves, they're crashing against him with so much force that even Geralt can feel himself being dragged in his good mood. They ride and Geralt feels his lips tugging in a smile, as Jaskier hums nonsense in his ears, says that now he's the luckiest bard in the whole wide world, and that now it really makes even less sense being rejected but he can't help feeling happy in being reciprocated, in Geralt's own way.

Geralt doesn't have the heart to tell him anything anymore.

“You know, if you wanted to make a respectful woman out of me, you could have been less sneaky about that.” Jaskier laughs, and laughs against the skin of his neck. He almost makes him shiver. “You don't want me to fuck anyone because you love me, but you don't want to fuck me either – because we're not married? Now, now, I didn't expect you to be so righteous.”

Geralt snorts. “Yeah.”

He tightens his lips, while Jaskier starts again to chatter the day away. That– that would be the right thing to do, and would make Jaskier happy. It's still not fair, because Geralt is still not worthy of him – but, but that would be right and just for Jaskier, at least.

If only there would be someone that would actually marry a mutant.


	9. Chapter 9

When Geralt comes back at their clearing, he finds Jaskier serenading Roach, strumming nonsense with his lute, on his knees next to the burning fire. His cheeks are red, his scent is sweet. Roach seems unperturbed by his words of love, she just keeps on munching the grass around the clearing – but she flicks her ears when she hears Geralt get around them.

“Oh, you're back!” Jaskier says, turning around when he hears his steps approaching. Geralt almost imagines his ears flick too, as Roach did. “How did the hunt go? Found anything? Venison would be lovely.”

“No venison. Just two squirrels.” he informs him, dropping the two animals on some rocks around the fire. He had gathered a couple of sticks too, during his search for dinner, so he first passes them on the flames, long enough to sanitize them but not to turn them into ashes, then he sits next to the blabbing bard and starts to skin them.

Jaskier grimaces at that view, “My, that's even better. Squirrels.” he sighs. His hands are around his lute for the first time since he turned back into a woman days ago, and for the grip he has on it, it seems that he doesn't want to get farther from it anytime too soon. He will probably strums and sings obscenities all night long, if he's enough in the mood. “Now, while you do your gruesome job, I'd like to serenade you tonight. Roach is the most adorable audience I've ever had, and she even seems to appreciate my singing, showing her interest way better than you do. But alas, unfortunately she still doesn't have the power of speech, contrary to you, even if you seems so reluctant to use it. So, as long as you don't compare me to a pie, I'm going to sing your praises and being acclaimed during the performance, thank you.”

Geralt snorts, and smirks as he looks at him sideways. “Do go on.”

While Geralt cooks, then, Jaskier sings and sings and sings. His voice is lighter, higher, but not quite too different from his male counterpart. He lacks his usual gruff, his lower tones are less _growly_ than before, but he's still the best Geralt has ever heard in his entire life. He sings softly beside him, not too loud – he knows that he shouldn't, when they are on the Path, unless he'd like to have unwanted guests – but enough that Geralt feels lulled by his voice.

Jaskier stops holding his lute only when he has to eat. He does that just because he doesn't want to risk staining it with the hot, unsavory meat. He hasn't sang for too long, not as long as he wishes to, but staring at his happy face, Geralt can see that it's as if he's now reborn. He wants too see him like this every nights, before going to sleep under the stars.

Geralt takes a note in his mind to ask him to sing – at least when they are alone, like now – more often.

There's some grease glistening around Jaskier's mouth, when they finish eating. It's distracting. “Do you mind?”

Geralt blinks, “What?”

“Um, too close to the fire I'm too hot, but if I stay here I'm cold.” he shivers, as he shifts towards him. He points at his lap, “Do you mind? You always feel so comfortable.”

No, of course he doesn't mind. But Geralt can't trust his own voice, in that moment, so he just nods and widens his thighs. Jaskier immediately slides between them, making Geralt wrap his arms around him. He shivers one last time, then sighs content, settling better with his back against his chest – he smells sweet and fragrant, of burnt wood and humid grass. He has a little smile tugging the corners of his lips, his eyes are closed, his face relaxed.

Geralt knows that the bard can – and probably will – fall asleep just like this.

But his lips – oh, his lips are so tempting. They shine with the light of the fire in front of them, and Geralt's fingers twitch to touch them, to swipe away the grease with his– _with his own lips_ , his traitor self desires.

He doesn't do that. He just raises a hand, and murmurs: “You have...” but he doesn't even finish the sentence, because the second his thumb touches his red lips, Jaskier's eyes snap open and he turns his face slightly to the side, towards him.

Now, their mouths are so close, so _so_ close. So much that Geralt is inhaling Jaskier's breath. So much that he can count every single long, black eyelid just by the shadow it leaves on his cheek. Jaskier shivers again in his arms, but Geralt doesn't think that it's because of the cold, this time. “I was thinking...” Jaskier whispers, as if he's scared to talk too loud, hence Geralt will walk away. And he probably should, but – he doesn't want to. He just finally swipes the grease off Jaskier's trembling lips. “That it's okay if you don't want to fuck me yet. Forcing you in some way is the last thing I want.” He licks his lips, after Geralt has done his job. Geralt follows the movement of his tongue as if he's hypnotized. “But the other day we kissed and touched ourselves, right? It means that... those things are alright for you? Even just that, it felt fantastic, Geralt. I want that. I want _at least_ that, if you feel the same. Please.”

Probably, if Geralt would be able to think straight, he would do the same thing he's doing right now – he kisses him and holds him tight against him. This, this doesn't feel wrong, and he's _so done_ in feeling wrong about this marvelous thing he has in his arms: so, what if they just touch themselves? They did that before, and it made Jaskier smell so happy and sweet – and he misses that, even if he's allowed himself to have that just very briefly. He wants that again, and Jaskier wishes to have that again. He won't fuck him, won't ruin him or anything like this. He'll just makes him feel good – and Jaskier, Gods, he deserves to feel good every time he wishes to.

So that's probably why his hand slides under this chemise. He's wearing just that, together with his silk trousers, while his doublet has been abandoned in his bag all day, because he was feeling too hot under Geralt's cloak, so he took it off. Now it's both a blessing and a curse, feeling his smooth skin of his belly immediately under his rough hands, and Jaskier gasps against his lips when he feels his touch. Jaskier nods even before Geralt can muster enough strength to ask him if it's okay or if he should stop. “Don't you dare.” he whispers, throwing his arms behind to hug Geralt's neck. He arches his spine, while doing that. “You can do whatever you want, Geralt. My body is a temple for you to take.”

He hums, and kisses him again. Jaskier moans and sinks his fingers into his loose hair, as one of his hand raises up from his belly to his stomach, trying so hard to touch him as lightly as he can. When he feels the swell of his breasts under his fingertips, he stops for a second. He knows he can continue, Jaskier already said so – but still, he waits for his permission nonetheless. “No, no, don't stop. You're so close, you're teasing me to death.”

Geralt needn't to hear more. He closes his palm around one of his tit, and Gods – he longed to do that since the first time his eyes laid upon them. They're round, and soft, and as perfect as they look. His nipple gets hard under his palm, and Geralt then squeezes tentatively. Jaskier breaks their kiss and inhales sharply – then falls again against his lips, eager than before, hungrier even, as his nipple, if possible, becomes even more hard. So, Geralt squeezes his tit one last time, then he grabs it in his hand, and pinches his nipple between the thumb and the forefinger.

Jaskier arches again, more, and moans, “Fuck. Oh, fuck. It's different. Gods, they... they didn't feel like this before.” Geralt looks as he wets his lips, even if they are glistening already with their spit together. “Do that again.”

Geralt obeys. He puts one hand on his waist, while he keeps torturing his nipple. Jaskier blabs something incoherent, and snaps his legs together when Geralt starts leaving a trail on his neck with light kisses. “More,” he gasps, “I want more.” he says, breathing heavily. He rubs his legs together as he did the other day while Geralt was cutting his hair.

That's why, with a low growl, Geralt obeys again and the hand on his waist slides softly down, until he can feel the dampness of his cunt under his fingers, even with his trousers still on. Jaskier swallows, “Yes, yes, yes, there. Inside, put them inside.”

And Jaskier moves, Gods, he moves so much, it's like he's going crazy. Geralt touches him, pinches his nipple and caresses his cunt still above his clothes, and under his loud moans, Jaskier pushes his arse against his cock, and _yes_ , yes he can literally come with just like this. And he probably will.

“You're so hard, Geralt. Gods, this is heavenly.” Jaskier continues to blab, stroking his cock with his clothed arse, and Geralt can feel perfectly the swell of his bottom right against his erection and everything about Jaskier seems to be perfect and it's so unfair. “I'm so close, Geralt.” he says, one, two, three times. “I want to feel your cock, I want that so much. Move faster, faster, _faster_.”

He comes trembling like a leaf, cocooned in his arms. “Don't stop.” he seems to beg, “I want you to come too.” So Geralt complies, he takes a hold of his waist and starts pushing against his heavenly arse, not too hard but hard enough to have that perfect friction that brings him over the edge. He closes his eyes, hiding them on the damp skin of his neck, and comes in his trousers not much later.

He doesn't want Jaskier to go, and Jaskier seems to be to the same intention, because when he brings his arms against him, to hold him even more closer than he already is, Jaskier just sighs and smells so happy that is inebriating. His scent is like a drug, he can't get enough anymore.

When their breathings calm, Jaskier pouts slightly. “You didn't put your fingers inside me.”

“Hm, no.” No, no, he didn't. He never will, probably. Nothing of Geralt should go inside Jaskier.

“Mh, okay. It's fine, if you don't want that.” Jaskier shifts against his chest, and his chemise falls down hiding his breasts and stomach again. Pity, Geralt loved the view. “That was fantastic, regardless. _You_ are fantastic. I love you so much.”

Just when, much later, they fall together into their bedroll, next to each other, Geralt says that he loves him too. But that's okay, because Jaskier isn't fully asleep yet, so he hears him, and he smiles with his eyes closed.


	10. Chapter 10

It's the coast that awaits them at the end of the road.

Jaskier seems to recognize the crashing of the waves against the sand immediately, can smell the salt lingering in the air almost as soon as Geralt does. His eyes widen, and his steps take a much faster pace, trying to reach the right place between the trees where he's able to see the sea. When he finds it, he leans on a wooden fence at the side of the road, and looks at the blue horizon in front of him. “I was born in a house at the top of a cliff, and from my window all I saw was the sea, nothing more. Sometimes there were a boat, or a ship crossing the water under my house, and I daydreamed about a sailor coming to save me. You know, like in a fairytale.”

“A sailor? Not a prince?” asks Geralt, joining him. His blue eyes are shining, his cheeks red – he doesn't know if just because he's happy, or because he now feels embarrassed about the confession. Geralt tries to imagine him like this, as a child, leaning on a windowsill with the same expression he's wearing now. It takes a while, for Geralt, to imagine him as a little girl, with ribbon in his long, brown hair and a frilly dress on.

“I am an incurable romantic, Geralt, but I am also quite realistic.” he laughs, turning his face just slightly to look at him and throw him a wink. “In the end, I understood that I didn't need some stranger to save me, I understood that not always those things happening fulfill one's expectations. So I just ran away from there, drank a strange potion from a witch, and saved myself.”

It's then that Geralt realizes that he doesn't know shit about Jaskier. He knows, now, that he was a woman, that he has made poorly choices that thankfully didn't bring him straight to his death, that he doesn't have a good relationship with his family, that his own land wants to put him on a stake and burn him alive. And now he knows that he's been a lonely child, with only his daydreams to keep him company. But the whys, and the hows, Geralt doesn't know shit. He never asked, he never cared before he, occasionally, told him tales like this one right now.

It doesn't matter, then, that Geralt loves him and needs him as he needs the air he's breathing – he always, always took him for granted. That's why he doesn't deserve Jaskier. It's one of the many reasons, at least.

Before he can find something, anything to say to him, Jaskier raises a finger and points at the beach, “There's a hut there. For the looks of it, it seems abandoned.”

“Full of drowners, surely.”

“You don't know for sure!” Jaskier pouts, then laces his fingers with his, and looks at him with pleadingly eyes. He bats his eyelids too, for fuck's sake. “Can we stop there? My feet are completely covered in blisters, I _know_ that I'm not able to arrive in town before I collapse from pain and exhaustion.” he sighs, dramatically. He also sways a bit, just to emphasize his words.

“You can ride Roach until you reach town, if your feet hurt. I will join you when I'm done with the contract.”

His mouth starts to work in a strange way, opening and closing like a fish. Then, “Of course I will not leave you alone! Especially during a hunt! Gods, you are as emphatic as a damned rock.”

“Fine.” he gives up, obviously. He isn't capable of denying him anything, after all – he already made peace with himself about this long ago. And also, it's not that they are in a hurry: the contract is simple, just get rid of the monsters that are scaring the merchants on their way from a town to the next. No one died so far, so Geralt won't feel to guilty in procrastinating for a bit.

Jaskier leans towards him and leaves a loud kiss against his lips, like this, as if it's the most simple thing in the world. It probably is, for him, and Geralt wishes so much to be able, one day, to be as open in showing him affection as he is. Jaskier wants that, and Geralt wants to please him, even if he has not the right to.

Jaskier grasps Roach's reins in his hand and starts forward, along the down road towards the beach. Geralt stays behind him, listening distractedly his monologue murmured in Roach's ears. He keeps his guard on, of course: an abandoned hut, in the middle of an abandoned shore, is the perfect nest for monsters – usually drowners, but he wouldn't be surprised if he finds there nekkers too. It's probably the nest Geralt is paid to get rid of.

Jaskier takes off his boots, when they reach the beach. His feet leave tiny traces on the sand as he walks in tiptoes, hissing between laughs because the sand is hot, but it's been so long since he felt it under his feet, so he'll endure the burning. Near the hut, though, there is nothing, no one – Geralt feels his medallion lay cold against his armored chest, and there are no traces around the place that aren't theirs. Jaskier's eyes are on him, and when Geralt makes no sudden movement towards his swords, he smiles smugly. “I told you there would be nothing to worry about, you disbeliever!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, “Disbeliever?”

“You don't believe in my optimism. Hence, you are a disbeliever.” he turns around and jumps on the sand until he reaches the hut's door. After leaving Roach neighing nearby, he pushes it and it opens with a creek. “There is nothing in here. Just... boxes, I guess empty. And a bed. _Oh_.” he disappears in the dark inside the hut. “Geralt, there's a bed.”

“I heard that.” he sighs, following him.

“I'm _dead_ tired. I know the sun in still high, but I wouldn't disdain a nap.”

Inside the hut is warm, it smells salty but it's not unpleasant. There's sand on the wooden floor, and also on the worn single bed situated at the side of the room. Geralt looms behind Jaskier's back, and it takes a while to restrain himself not to lean towards him and sniff his hair. “Take out the bedroll and sleep, then. I'll come back here when I'm done.”

Geralt will probably cast a _yrden_ around the hut, if Jaskier really wants to sleep while he isn't with him. Just in case.

He scrunches his nose, looking back at him. “How about you join me instead?”

The temptation is too strong, and Geralt is a weak man. One day, this weakness will bring him to his death, but for now, he doesn't want to care about that. He finally leans on him, touches his scrunches nose with his. “I have a job to do.”

“You can do that later. And also, I don't want to leave you alone.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt inhales, and breathes his scent right into his lungs, “If those monsters, whatever they are, don't kill defenseless merchants, they surely don't kill me either.”

“True.” he bites his lower lip, and strokes their noses together, “Maybe, maybe you can stay here until I fall asleep... You can  _help_ me fall asleep...”

Jaskier giggles when Geralt grabs his thighs and lifts him until his legs close around his waist. They kiss as Geralt, slowly, painfully aware of the precious cargo he has in his arms, lowers him on the worn bed. Jaskier moans when his back touches the mattress, “Ugh. There's sand on this fucking bed.”

“I told you to take out your bedroll.”

In response, Jaskier kisses him again and cradles his shoulders between his long arms, “Later.” he murmurs, and his hands roam on his back, trying to find a part of it not covered by the armor. “Take this off, love.”

“Hm. Better not. You will never know.”  _Never drop your guard_ , echo Vesemir's words in his head. Geralt guesses that he failed him in many ways because he is too distracted, too soft, too weak – at least this, he has to follow at least this teaching. For Jaskier's sake, if for nothing else.

Jaskier pouts, “You're no fun.”

“Hm.” he grunts, ignoring him. Now that he has allowed himself to at least touch him, to make him feel good without tainting him in any way, Geralt is ready to comply. 

He leaves a wet trail along his neck, and Jaskier's legs twitch around him. He pounds against his body, his trembling, soft body, and Jaskier raises his head, kisses him and starts to suck his tongue –  _Gods_ –, gasping around it at every thrust. Finally, Jaskier moans out loud, and flushes their clothed bodies together.

And Geralt trips over the edge. It's embarrassing if only he has enough of his brain cleared to think about that, how little Jaskier needs to make him lose his mind like this – he, that has always had so much control over everything, has always tried to be the emotionless witcher everyone are afraid of, has needed just a little, nosy, chatting, rebellious, beautiful bard to destroy the walls he has had around himself for  _so long_ . He feels fragile, now. Fragile, and vulnerable, but so, so  _free_ .

But obviously, his new freedom ends when Jaskier's starts. So, that's why he stops abruptly when, while he tries to caress his stomach under his chemise and doublet, Geralt breaks him free of his clothes, tearing them. He looks Jaskier in the eyes, not daring to stare at his now naked torso without first knowing if he's alright. But Jaskier has his cheeks as red as a blossom, the blue in his eyes is almost glassy and his lips are swollen by their own kisses. “That was,” he laughs, raising his head from the mattress to kiss him again, “So fucking sexy, Geralt.”

Jaskier comes like this, with Geralt mouth biting softly at the delicate skin of his throat, with Geralt's clothed cock pounding against him, and with one of Geralt's hand on his hip and the other on his breast.

Still gasping for air, Jaskier lets his hand wander down Geralt's chest, until he stops right on the bulge in his leather trousers. Geralt's voice seems to have disappeared, and his arms are too tense and his mind too clouded to think that Jaskier's shouldn't touch him. So, that's why, when Jaskier's long fingers open the button of his trousers and close around his erection, Geralt just lets his head fall on Jaskier's chest, and enjoys his so lovely touch.

“Did you really think that I would have left you fight against monsters without taking good care of you first? My my, Geralt, I never leave a lover unsatisfied. Especially the one I adore so much.” Geralt feels his lips move in his hair, and he closes his eyes while Jaskier strokes his cock with attentive, fast movements. “And I know that you know this already, but you are the only one I ever loved this much.”

And that's it, as always it's Jaskier's declarations of love that brings him to the peak of pleasure. He trembles, when he comes. He does it silently. Jaskier's other hand is into his hair, scratches his scalp and his fingers on his cock don't stop until even the last spurt has hit his naked stomach. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this story starting to have a plot? Maybe? Some hints here and there? Who knows.

“Are you alright, love?” asks Jaskier, after some minutes where the both of them stay still and silent, enjoying their afterglow together.

“Hm.” he leaves a kiss in the center of his chest, and Jaskier giggles. Probably his beard has made him ticklish. “I go find something to clean you up.” he says, raising grudgingly from his warm body. Jaskier moans, clearly not happy with the new distance between them, and Geralt cannot stop himself and smiles at the impossible, ridiculous man –  _woman_ – laying on the worn bed.

He buttons up his trousers, then goes outside to take out a bedroll and a rag from Roach's saddlebag. He grabs Jaskier's waterskin and a piece of bread, so Jaskier can drink and eat without getting up from the bed, and turns back inside – just to stop abruptly, when he lays his eyes on him.

Jaskier is on his elbows, and with a lean finger he is following the trail his sperm has done between his breasts down his stomach. He's trying to not let it fall on the mattress, or to stain his clothes crumpled at both sides of his body, and Geralt feels his cock twitch in his trousers a the sight of Jaskier bringing his finger to his mouth and  _lick_ .

“Jaskier.” he calls him, and he can hear clearly his voice too ragged. He knows that it's not  _right_ , nothing of him must stain Jaskier – he already did wrong coming on him, now Jaskier eating his come is... unfair. But,  _Gods_ , so sensual. He may lose his mind over this. That damned siren, with simple gestures he'll bring him to his death. 

“Too much?” he smiles, cocky. With still the finger between his teeth, his cheeks becomes red – and oh, his blush reaches his throat and a bit of his cleavage, and that sight is more arousing than his naked chest. He is so,  _so_ fucked. “I wanted to taste you for so long, Geralt. I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.”

Geralt swallows, and walks towards him. He drops the bedroll, the waterskin and the food next to him, and then – then he leans onto him, starting to clean him in delicate strokes with the rag. Slowly, softly, against the skin of his stomach, and up between his tits. “And,” he says, in the end, with his mouth dry, their faces so close that their noses touch. “And how do I taste?”

“Salty. Like seawater. You taste like everything I ever wanted, and so much more. You taste like the home I've never had, but I've always desired.” His blue eyes drop to Geralt's lips, and they stay there, staring. “And I'm talking about the taste of your skin, of your mouth. The sweat on your neck, your saliva that still wets my lips, your very essence. Everything of you, is all I ever wanted. _Hey_.” Jaskier raises a hand, his expression one of the softest Geralt has ever seen, and touches between his eyebrows, “Why are you making that face, now? Everything is fine?”

“Yes. Yes, it's just...” _It's just that I don't deserve you_ , it's what Geralt should say, but the words seem to be stuck in his throat. What if Jaskier will finally understand that wasting his time with Geralt is not worth it and leaves? What if Jaskier will be exasperated about his worries, and he'll be done waiting for Geralt to feel _worthy_ of him, if it will ever happen? It surely would be best if Jaskier just, just turns his back at him once and for all, but Geralt is weak, and right now – right now, right after Jaskier's words of love, he is not able to endure the loss of him. “That I love you, Jaskier. I'm not good with long declarations of love as you are, but...”

“It's more than enough, darling. You are good, you are perfect just the way you are.”

And fuck if Geralt isn't starting to believe that, slowly, painfully. Letting Jaskier touch him, love him, feel him without stopping at thinking how much of unfairness is in it, how much he hates himself for permitting it. He is starting, unconsciously, to not see black stains on Jaskier's skin where he touches him, but just the immense devotion in his eyes.

It _is_ more than enough, losing himself in the blue of his irises, without a care at all.

“Stay, now?” Jaskier yawns, stretching under him. “Wait for me to fall asleep first, before you go doing your heroic witchery things?”

“Sure. Get inside the bedroll. I brought you water, you should drink some.”

He pouts, while, still half naked, gets inside his bedroll. The hut is warm, but he cuddles inside the furs nonetheless, blinking lively eyes while Geralt moves around. “But then I'll need to pee. The need will wake me up!”

“Then you'll just go, Jaskier. Drink. You should, after the, you know, strain.”

He wiggles his eyebrows, but finally he drinks obediently. “Oh yeah? You should drink too, then.” he says, dropping the waterskin on the floor and passing the back of his hand over his mouth.

Geralt sighs, laying beside him. The bed is small, so he finds an excuse to get close to him, to embrace him so both of them get confortable. Jaskier clings to him, nuzzling his neck. “No strain for me, Jaskier. I'm a witcher.”

“Liar.” he mumbles, and Geralt feels a smile against his skin. “You're a human, too. You are also an old man. And don't think that I didn't see you catching your breath while you had your face in my tits, darling. You are fooling nobody.”

“Am I the only old man here?”

“I am barely _thirty_ , you brute.” he sniffs, “And also, I'm a woman, now.”

“I'm aware. Hm.” as he hugs him, Geralt breathes deeply, trying to catch something in his scent. But all Jaskier smells like is the wonderful, flowery fragrance of his, filled with contentedness. Jaskier also has his own smell lingering on his skin, and that thought makes his cock twitch again inside his trousers, but he tries to stay calm. “I still think of you as a boy.”

“It's fine. I don't mind, I already told you.”

“But which way you prefer?”

“Both. None.” he shrugs, “Who cares? I've been both, and I'm confortable with both. If you still think of me as your humble, very masculine and attractive bard, it's okay.”

“Hm.” Of course, Geralt doesn't care either. He just didn't want to make Jaskier uncomfortable, still calling him with male nouns – it would probably take a while to take the habit, but Geralt would have started calling him a woman, if he wished so. He doesn't, so he won't.

Jaskier will go back in his male self as soon as Geralt finds some sorcerer trustworthy enough that would help him. Geralt will surely feel better knowing that Jaskier is safe, without a price on his head. “You'll be back in that masculine bard, don't worry.” he smirks, then, but there it is, the sour smell that Geralt was expecting in Jaskier's scent. Just, why now? “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just sleepy.” 

There's a peak of anxiety and panic in his nose, coming from Jaskier. His heart is beating as a lark's wings, even if he's trying so much to look calm and poised. Almost faking he's asleep.  _Shit_ . Geralt probably has made him think about his situation, about his own family trying to execute him just because he wanted to be  _free_ . So, he brings a hand under his chin, raising it until Jaskier can't do much than look in his eyes. “I swear, Jaskier, that you'll be fine. I will find a solution, and you'll be back to do all your dancing and singing around, as you wish. Without being afraid of anyone. Meanwhile, I'll keep you safe.”

Jaskier bats his eyelids, apparently confused. Then, understanding seems to wash over him, so he smiles and pops a kiss on his mouth, “Oh, darling. I know. I never once thought I wouldn't be safe with you.”

“Good. Sleep, now. You won't even notice I'll be away.”

“Hardly.” Jaskier sinks back into position, face nuzzling his neck and chest. “It's difficult not to notice your absence.”

Geralt waits until Jaskier breathes deeply and softly against his neck, before trying to get up. Jaskier doesn't do much as mumbling something in his sleep, while Geralt, hoping to not wake him up, untangles Jaskier's limbs from his body – when he wants, the bard is like a damn octopus – and steps towards the door's hut, not before placing a kiss on his forehead.

He grabs his swords and his potions, and heads to the door. Closing it behind his back, he dares to look at the bed for a second more. Jaskier is covered by the furs, on his side. His hands are where Geralt was lying before, and that sight makes his heart clench in his chest. The scariest thing of all this, is that Geralt can easily get used to this – to Jaskier waiting for him in a place that isn't an inn, confortable in their bed, after they fucked their brains out and whispered words of love under the blankets. 

Geralt shakes his head. Witchers do not retire, obviously. He's bound to be on the path for as long as he lives, until the day he will be killed on a hunt – not, not on a bed with a beloved next to them. 

He casts a _yrden_ around the hut, before he goes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter at. all. but it needed to be written because of """"reasons"""".  
> Next chapter there will be again smut, do not fret darling!

When he comes back, the hut is empty. Jaskier is nowhere in sight, the furs of his bedroll are crumpled at the bottom of it as if he threw them off out of exasperation. His waterskin and the dry bread are on the floor, where he left them. There are no sign of struggle – but still, Jaskier isn't here.

“Fuck.”

 _Yrden_ should have protected him, no one should have been able to pass through it without being trapped. The sign is gone weak, after a couple of hours, but it still works. So Jaskier must have walked away on his own. Leaving the hut, Geralt starts to track around the place in search of Jaskier's traces: he finds them right in front of the door, Jaskier's scent still lingering the air.

They bring him towards the sea, where they disappear under the waves.

“ _Fuck_.”

Has he gone and threw himself into the ocean like this, without thinking? Jaskier _is_ sometimes an idiot, and most of the time he lacks of self preservation, but he didn't do something this dangerous, did he? It's... it's too much, even for him. The sea isn't calm today, tides are strong and cause the waves crashing vehemently against the shore.

No, he cannot believe it. Jaskier didn't take a fucking _swim_ alone, in a rough sea, he didn't.

He looks around more, following Jaskier's scent this time. It goes towards the sea, but it takes am abrupt change of road, and it gets... it gets mixed with another one– no, another two, more musky scents.

The trail of the three scents continues for all the long shore, and disappears into the woods. Geralt curses mentally, unsheathing his sword and wincing a little as a flash wound pulls in his thigh. And here he thought that he would come back to Jaskier, enjoy his fussing over him, and maybe surrender at his touches and love. Instead, he has to save his arse, and try to not lose his mind in panic over what they might do to him.

He follows the trail, gritting his teeth in both pain and worry. It doesn't take long for him to hear voices, incomprehensible shouts and muffled whines. Shit, are they hurting him? He will tear them all in pieces with his bare hands if even a single hair is missed on Jaskier's head. Crouching, without letting him be heard or seen, he gets closer, and the words reach his ears – stopping him dead in his track.

 _What_?

“You've always been shit in gwent, darling. Don't you remember that you barely won when I were naught but a little, unwitting child?” Jaskier is saying, smitten, seated graciously on a log in front of an armored man, he too seated on another log.

They are... playing gwent.

Another man is giving Geralt his back and looking at the couple playing, not knowing that there is a witcher looming behind him. He may kill him in just a movement, the man may not even acknowledge his impending death. But Jaskier is unharmed, and if he can help it... Geralt doesn't want to kill anyone. Even so, they tried to _take Jaskier away from him_. He's about to change his mind soon enough just thinking at that.

That's why he comes out of his hiding spot with his hand raised, and Jaskier immediately perks up at the sight of him, letting his cards fall off his hands as he raises up and runs towards him. “Geralt, my love! There you are, I was wandering how long would take you to join us.”

The armored man – two guards, Geralt guesses, even if he doesn't understand under which lord they are working and what the fuck do they want from Jaskier – scramble in a defensive position, unsheathing their swords and pointing them at him.

Jaskier ignores the both of them, “Darling, are you hurt? Did the hunt go wrong?”

“No, I'm fine. Just a flash wound.” at that, Jaskier frowns, worriedly, “What the fuck, Jaskier? _Explain_.” he demands, because he needs to know that they aren't here to hurt him, and to let Jaskier's thoughts wander off his wound.

Jaskier just shrugs, “Pay them no mind, love. They're of no importance.” he says, and his hands start hovering over his body in search of blood and wounds. He frowns more when he finds blood stains on his armor, “Let's get you patched up.”

“My lady...” one of the guard, the one Jaskier was playing with, drops his shoulder with a defeated expression on his buttered face, “We can't waste time–”

“Shut your mouth, you ignorant moron.” snorts Jaskier, puffing with his nose as he turns around and points the guard with a lean finger, “I already told you, I won't come anywhere with you lot. Of course, you could force me, _buuuut_ ,” he gestures at Geralt next to him, “he will no permit such thing. And I won't even bat an eye as he kills both of you.”

Geralt grits his teeth, “ _Jaskier_.”

“Don't worry, darling.”

Fuck, Jaskier knows that Geralt doesn't want to kill anyone. He doesn't understand what's going on, but the two man are clearly not a threat to Jaskier, and that's enough of a reason to Geralt to not kill them. Apparently, though, they want to take Jaskier away from him, so– so– fuck, he can't bear the though of living on without him right now.

The one who never talked clears his throat, “My lady, the witcher surely will sold you at the first chance, when he'll find out how much you're worth now that you again are... uh... anyway. You _need_ to come with us, for your safety.”

Geralt growls, grabbing Jaskier's wrist and pushing him behind his back. He snarls, and it's just Jaskier's fingers against his shoulders that stop him to jump on them and tear them apart. How dare they say what they said? As if Geralt would just fucking _sold_ Jaskier, sold the only thing that means so much for him.

He wavers a bit, feeling Jaskier's arousal hitting him like a punch. Fucking hell, this is not the moment. “As you can see,” Jaskier's voice is a bit wobbly, but surely not in fear, “I am in complete safety with the witcher. I don't need two idiots that, now that I think about it, _they_ might sold me at first chance. After all, the reward for my head is way bigger than both your paychecks, am I right?”

They tense, and look at each other with guilty glances. Geralt snarls again, clenching the grip he has on Jaskier, as if scared to lose him in any moment – he just hopes, feverishly, that he's not hurting him.

“As I thought.” sighs Jaskier, “Now, I advice you to just get the fuck out of our sight, before I will really let my witcher just dismember your useless bodies.” with the corner of his eyes, Geralt sees Jaskier raise an hand and wave at them, “Farewell!”

When they disappear with their tails between their legs, Jaskier moans quite lasciviously, wrapping his arms around him from behind the moment Geralt leaves his grip on him and laying his head on his shoulder with a sigh, “Gods, Geralt, that was so fucking hot.”

“That really wasn't, Jaskier.” he turns around to look at Jaskier in his eyes, finding him staring adoringly, “What the fuck, Jaskier?” he repeats, hoping that the bard can clear his mind about the whole situation.

“You don't have to worry about anything, my love. They might have seen me somewhere, after all we are near the coast, Kerack isn't too far away from here and Lettenhove is part of Kerack.” he feels his hands on his face, softly, the gentlest of the touches, “Don't mind their words. I am the most protected with you, and I will always choose you, I will always follow you 'til the end of the world.”

“We've been almost there.”

“Indeed, even if the _end_ is beyond the _edge_ , Geralt. I followed you there, remember? And I kept following you. Nothing changed since then.”

 _Things have changed,_ he wants to tell him, _things have definitely changed since then, because you didn't love me back then, and now you do. I could have lived easily without you back then, and now I cannot._ But he understands what Jaskier means with those words, and his chest tightens at that. Gods, he loves him so much.

“But now, let's go back to the hut and get you patched up.” Jaskier lowers his arms, and steps towards the clearing where two the gwent cards are abandoned near the logs. He grabs them, and throws him a knowing look and, with a wink, he shows them to him. Geralt closes his eyes and barely represses a growl, as his arousal hits him once again. “And after... how about _strip_ gwent?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just very, very gay for fem!jaskier.

He has a gash in his thigh, nothing that needs to stitch back together. Jaskier just covers the wound with a piece of cloth after cleaning it carefully. Stupidly – and Geralt no, he won't admit that the gesture lit a fire inside of him, both of arousal and devotion – Jaskier gives the neatly covered wound a light kiss, a barely there touch of lips that almost makes him shivers.

Gods, his face– those lips– are so close to... so, _so_ close...

Geralt can't help himself and _imagines_ that sinful mouth stretched around his cock, his cheeks full and his red lips swollen. He knows it's wrong, and he's trying to repeat that to himself as a mantra, but now he's so drunk of him, so full of love and want that he can barely restrain his hands – and thinking that Jaskier wouldn't even stop him, that he would be _happy_ to finally have all of Geralt – he already has all of him, he has, by the Gods he has – takes him over the edge.

Geralt sits on the worn bed, as Jaskier lays his head on his thigh, the one without the wound, and looks up at him through long lashes. He's so beautiful, and he smells so sweet that's intoxicating. “What now?” he whispers, licking his lips, “Want to play? Or... you want to do something else? Of course,” he immediately frets, widening his big, blue eyes, “if you want to rest after the hunt, we can take a nap! Mine was so abruptly interrupted, after all: as expected, I had to take a piss, _and_ later I was so indignantly bothered by those two idiots!”

Geralt almost says yes, because if his nap was interrupted, Jaskier might still be tired, but something pulls at him – want, mostly, and Jaskier's smell above all. “I'm fine.” he grunts, and clears his throat, “What do you want, Jaskier?”

“Oh, darling, you very well know the answer to that.”

Geralt smiles, “Don't want to play gwent, Jaskier.”

“Neither do I, right now.” Jaskier raises slightly his face, eyeing his crotch as he bites lightly his lower lips. “Maybe another time, to spice it up. Strip gwent is actually really, _reeaaally_ exciting to play, especially with someone as sexy as you, darling. But now,” his hands creep slowly, oh so slowly up his thighs, stopping just a few inch before the bulge in his trousers. “Now let me take care of you. Just lay down, and enjoy, darling.”

Gods, and how he wishes to just to that, feel Jaskier's hands and mouth and breath on every inch of his skin, that trying to stop him it physically hurts, “Jaskier–”

“Geralt, please. I can clearly see what you want,” he hushes him, glancing again at his crotch, “and you deserve so much to just... _take_. You deserve to just feel good, and the Gods help me, _I_ want to be to be the one to make you feel like that.”

The moment his fingers push against his – Gods, already hard, constricted inside his trousers – cock, Geralt just loses his mind, and accept to do as he wants: he stays there, on the bed, looking at Jaskier between his legs with half–lidded eyes, with hands that twitch to grab his hair but no, not yet and not without Jaskier's consent. Jaskier looks right straight in his face while he frees his cock, and just when he lays hard and heavy in his palm Jaskier finally lowers his eyes and licks his lips.

“I've, I've never done this before, obviously.” Jaskier sighs, his breath crushing against the already leaking tip of his cock. “But I received more than one, as I'm sure you already are aware. I may know a trick or two... but guide me? Tell me what you like, how you like.”

 _You, just you_ , he wants to say, but his voice is stuck in his throat as Jaskier widens his mouth and sinks onto his twitching cock, moaning softly probably at the taste – and making him shiver from the sensation of the vibrations of his throat. Jaskier's mouth is so, so warm, it engulfs him almost half–length in one go, before starting to gag. Geralt panics, in the mist of pleasure, but when his hand finds place on Jaskier's hair to stop him, he just shakes his head and starts to suck the tip, slowly, with his tongue fluttering around it and pushing against the slit.

Jaskier has closed his eyes, emitting the slightest of the moans every time he bounces is head – this time, not trying to take the entire length. He opens them just when Geralt tries to take his hand off his hair. “No, no,” he says, after leaving his cock with a pop and letting it rest against his lips. Geralt feels every movement that sinful mouth is making while talking, “Stay. I like your touch.”

Geralt tries to tell him something, _anything_ , but the look in Jaskier's blue, shiny eyes as he laps his cock makes him forget even his own fucking name. That tongue, on that pink, mischievous tongue, the things that it's doing to him: licking all the precum away and seeing it shine on his red lips, and the scent, _his_ scent reaching his nose and numbing his mind – he literally cannot think at anything if not his arousal, the pleasure he's feeling in sucking him off.

Jaskier must have sensed his upcoming orgasm, because he stretches his lips in a smile, not stopping looking straight into his eyes, and engulfs just the tip of his cock, jerking off with skilled fingers the rest of his length. He bobs his head faster, and Geralt cannot stop himself: he tightens his grip on his hair, and moves his hips together with his head, and Jaskier throws his eyes to the sky and breathes deeply through his nose.

When he comes, he does that pulling out of his mouth just in time, spurting on his lips, cheeks and dropping down his chin. “Fuck,” he swears, but Jaskier seems to be completely not bothered by it one bit, licking himself clean with his own fingers aid.

He moans at the sight, and Jaskier smiles, with eyes that shine of love and happiness, “I _love_ your taste, Geralt. Next time, come directly inside my mouth, darling: it should be much less of a mess, don't you think so? And, Gods,” he says, letting himself be manhandled until he rests on Geralt's lap, with Geralt kissing his neck, cheek and mouth, and tasting himself on Jaskier makes Geralt's spent cock twitch again. “Do again that hair–pulling. That almost made me come.”

“Hm. But you didn't.”

Jaskier strokes his lips with his swollen, red own, giving him little, adorable pecks. “I didn't.” he confirms, expectation clearly written on his flushed face.

Kissing him, Geralt turns with him still on his lap and lays him down on the mattress. Then, it's his time to go down on him: he falls on his knees, between his open thighs – and yes, this is the place he wants to live and die, on his knees by Jaskier's feet, reverently worshiping every inch of his skin until his last breath. He buries his nose there, against his still clothed cunt, and _fucking Gods_ , his scent is like a drug, he can't get enough, is addictive and he wants to stay there, smelling him all day long. He is so warm, and _wet_ even through the thick fabric of his trousers.

“Gods, Geralt, yes.” Jaskier pants, his fingers grabbing the furs of his bedroll under him. “Yes, love. Take this off me.” he says, and agitated he helps him pull down his trousers.

This is the first time Geralt sees him naked. Or better: he has seen him plenty of time naked when he had a male body, but it never was in the same kind of situation they are now, and he never lingered and enjoyed the sight of him bathing in a river, or changing his clothes. He always, always looked in another direction – surely, he thought, his stare wouldn't be welcomed. And now, now here they are, with Jaskier opening up to him, wheezing prayers to the Gods, wanting so much to be looked at – wanting _Geralt_ to look at him, and nothing, no one else.

So, he noses his cunt, and feels his mouth watering at the strong, oh so strong scent of his love. He buries his nose in his cute, black curls, and slowly he pushes his thumbs to the side of his cunt, widening his folds.

Then he _eats_ him.

Jaskier throws an high–pitched howl, and his thighs jerk. It's Geralt that keeps them open – he wouldn't even mind being crushed by them, honestly, but not now. Now, he has to drink every drop of his pleasure. Jaskier is vocal, as he has always been, while Geralt sucks at his clitorides until he becomes nothing but a blabbing mess, and licks his folds and pushes against his hole – not entering inside, not yet, not today. Spit and Jaskier's sweet wetness drop down his bearded chin, and his taste is immediately become his favourite flavour, so much that he wants more, and more, sinks into him until he can breath no more.

“Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier moans, and trashes around. Geralt has his hands on his waist, trying to keep him still, and he smiles when he finds it so difficult to do, “I can't... I want, I _won't_... Gods, I'm gonna come, love.” he blabs incomprehensibly, and Geralt feels his fingers grab his loosened hair and he feels himself being pushed _more_ against that heavenly place that is Jaskier's cunt – and, and if only he didn't come already, Geralt is quite sure he would have right now.

As he comes, Jaskier's legs convulse and close, and Geralt enjoys the feeling of his smooth thighs hard against his cheeks, and drinks every drop of his orgasm, until Jaskier is just a trembling mess above him. He stops just when Jaskier pulls his hair and whispers a tired, “Stop, enough, _Gods_.”

Geralt doesn't even try to clean himself, he doesn't want to. He wants to have Jaskier's taste and smell on himself a little bit more. Or at least, until Jaskier – tired, content, with his face red and his lips swollen, with his breath heavy and his heart beating crazy in his chest – gestures him to reach up to him and kisses him slowly, softly. A no needed thank you, maybe, that Geralt didn't want because it should be _him_ to thank Jaskier. For _everything_. No person in his entire life has let Geralt touch them like Jaskier does, no one has ever showed him so much trust and love. And maybe he isn't worth of anything if not scorn and hatred, and maybe it's wrong bringing Jaskier down with him, but...

But now, watching as Jaskier snuggles against his neck, sighing happy because of _him,_ he can't go back anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Send me prompts about this at my tumblr if you'd like! [@geraltdirivia](https://geraltdirivia.tumblr.com/)


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